


Ardor Fictus

by alleged (wraithwisp)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Contrived Magical Amnesia, Humor, M/M, Mysterious Absence of Justice, Unhappy Ending, lots of bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 64,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithwisp/pseuds/alleged
Summary: Stripped of their memories and forced to rely on one another to survive against a dangerous new enemy, Anders and Fenris will have to come to understand each other far more deeply than any of their companions would have thought possible.If they can stop sniping at each other first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wombuttress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/gifts).



> This is entirely my girlfriend's fault. Years ago I had a vague story idea that _could_ have been an original concept, but then they got me into dragon age and fenders and now it's fanfiction. About a contrived amnesia plot. Which I am now inflicting upon the world because I can.
> 
> Happy reading!

Fenris woke up on the ground, with his face in the dirt. The ground spun, and he had to wobble over to the nearest tree for support.  There wasn’t enough air in his lungs. The whole world blurred. And there was so much _pain—_

_Drunk,_ he thought. _I’m drunk._

He took a deep breath, and and managed to push himself up. His head shot with pain at the movement, and for a moment images flashed behind his eyelids. Glowing, sinister looking glyphs. A deformed face snarling at him. But the images slipped away like unpleasant, drunken dreams the moment he woke up.

Eventually, the ground stopped spinning. When his senses returned, he could open his eyes a crack and look around. He was outside, right off some kind of road. As the pain started to subside, he tried to think of what he was doing here and realized he had no idea.

_Drunk,_ he reminded himself. _I’ll remember as I sober up._

But as his head started to clear, nothing came to him. He swallowed, starting to feel panic welling up in his chest.

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t know where he was going.

He looked down and saw his hands were shaking—and they were covered in drying blood. He looked down—the blood had splattered over all his clothes. He grasped at his hair, realized there were flecks of it everywhere. He was covered in blood, and he had no idea why.

Troubling.

In the end, the daylight was running out so he had to stand, get back on the road, and pick a direction to walk in.

\--

When he reached the village, he commenced with information gathering.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked the nearest villager. “Have you seen me before?”

Her response was to stare at him, slack-jawed and fish-eyed, before dropping a pail of water and running screaming into a house. Fenris could hear the bolting of the door and windows. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

That was the problem with walking around covered in blood and carrying a large sword. People tended to run away screaming without even bothering to tell him what year it was, or what the village’s name was. Well, that and the stuff started to really smell after a while, and it was sticky.

He tried to go to an inn, only to be ordered out by the owner and sent wandering again. He was then glared at by some men with pitchforks and blunt instruments, only for them to move easily aside after he merely looked them in the eye for a few minutes.

“I only—” he tried with one man, only for the man to interrupt him.

“I’m just minding my own business!” he squeaked, breaking out into a nervous sweat. “I don’t have a problem with knife-ears, elves or what have you, don’t take my money!”

He starting to babble about “Templars” already causing enough trouble in the town since they arrived, and kept babbling until Fenris got annoyed and walked away. He kept walking, increasingly aware of how cold it was getting now that the sun was going down, how his legs were aching, and how he had nowhere to stay, and the looks the locals were giving him were increasingly hostile. He finally plopped down beside the small village chantry, and ended up falling asleep.

He woke to hear cooing.

“Who’s a pretty kitty? Awwww aren’t you the wittle-est, cutest…”

Fenris groaned, but the voice continued. Eventually, he got up, and looked for it. It was coming from right around the corner of the chantry.

He turned the corner and saw the mage.

He didn’t know why he thought of the man as “the mage” immediately—the robes, he supposed, but it was really more of a coat. The man was a ratty figure crouched in the distance, hunching over something on the ground. Fenris pulled himself up and approached.

The mage was still cooing.

“Aww, who’s a good little kitty? Who’s a precious wittle itsy bitsy—no, kitty!”

Fenris caught sight of the cat right as it skittered off at his arrival. The mage plopped on the grass glumly, not bothering to turn around and look at Fenris.

“You scared him,” the mage complained.

Fenris gave a grunt, and the mage finally turned to look at him. The mage looked—and smelled—rather like some kind of corpse that had crawled out of a sewer. His hair was dirty and matted, a color that reminded Fenris of dirty dishwater. His face was sallow, cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken and baggy, jaw covered in unattractive stubble—Fenris did not _think_ he cared much about the hygiene of others, but the sight made him fantasize about grabbing the man by the hair, holding his face down some soapy water, and then scrubbing as hard as he could, and maybe giving him a good shave while he was at it.

Ah, but… he was staring, wasn’t he? Right into the mage’s eyes, too. And the mage was staring back.

“What are you looking at?” he snapped. “Can’t a man pet a cat in peace?”

Fenris didn’t say anything, but frowned, suddenly feeling strange.

“Well, hello to you to,” the man said, squinting at him. And then after another pause, he continued, “Am I supposed to say something? How do you do, ser elf? Lovely weather we’re having today, can you perhaps stop blocking the sun?”

He didn’t point out that Fenris was covered in dried blood. And he didn’t run away screaming. That was something, at least. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

His tone came out more biting than he expected it. The man drew back in exaggerated hurt.

“I don’t even get a hello back?” he asked. “Not a ‘good day’ or ‘how are you’ or ‘sorry for scaring the cat away’?”

“No,” Fenris told him. “You don’t.”

“Oh,” the mage snapped back. “Someone wake you up on the wrong side of whatever mountain cave you crawled out of, then?”

“Take a good look at yourself before talking about who crawled out of where,” Fenris said.

“Funny. You like to bully random helpless poor people? Noble pastime, that.”

“As though you are helpless, you—”

But Fenris trailed off, not sure how he wanted to end that sentence. He furrowed his brow, the mage squinted back, and they were staring at each other again. Uncomfortably long, in fact. And then, the mage’s eyes darted to somewhere behind Fenris, and he scrambled up.

“Sorry!” he said, quickly. “Terrific conversationalist though you are, I have to—”

He didn’t even bother to finish his sentence. In a second, Fenris heard a shout from behind him, and realized why.

“There’s the apostate!”

In a moment, there were arrows flying past Fenris’s head, and there was a flash of magic from the running mage—a ward, of some kind. Fenris stepped up, grasped his sword—and then stepped back.

This was none of his business, was it? He had no reason to get involved here, and plenty of reasons to stay out. So he let the armored men run past him, and watched the brief flash of battle that there was. But the mage fled quickly, and the armored men after him.

That should have been the end of it, but instead several of the armed men came back and swarmed around him.

“You there,” one of them said. “What business did you have with the apostate?”

Fenris frowned. “None.”

“I think he’s lying,” snapped another. “I say we question him.”

“Come with us,” the first one said. “Put down your weapon.”

Fenris ended up with a new coat of blood.

\--

Fenris had bumped his goals from “find out who and where he was” to “avoid the Templars and find out where to get a bath” when he encountered the mage again. Or rather, he encountered a barrel. A wobbling barrel that gave an audible sigh after the Templars had ran past.

Fenris lifted the lid, and the man immediately yelped, covering his face. Fenris wrinkled his nose at the smell—rotting fish, and sweaty runaway apostate.

“Don’t kill me!” the man said. “I’m not—oh wait.”

He looked up, and blinked owlishly at Fenris before his face sagged.

“Oh, you’re that… uh… scary fellow from earlier,” the man gave a bit of an awkward smile. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to, you know, forget the whole… apostate thing… and not report me to the Templars?”

Fenris scowled down.

“Right,” the man babbled. “Look, I might be a mage, but I’m a good person. Or at least, I think I’m not a bad person. Anyway, I don’t see why I should be yanked around and hauled off to—wherever it is they take mages. I don’t know much about it all but honestly this all seems… oh, bother, you’re going to turn me in, aren’t you? And to think I’m all out of mana…”

Fenris thought about it. Part of him felt the urge to say yes. Instead, he asked, “Why would I do that?”

The man’s eyes shone hopefully. “You won’t? Oh Maker, that’s great. I am truly, truly in your debt. Er—are they gone?”

“I believe so.”

The man tried to step out of the barrel only to cause it to tip over, making him and a bunch of foul-smelling refuse tumble out. The man scrambled out, stood and glanced at Fenris. There was another long, awkward look.

“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way then?” he said. “Thank for not yelling for the Templars, or anything. Maybe I can get a head start on them.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “If they don’t track you down by smell alone, you mean.”

“Ha, ha. Funny. You’re one to talk, bloody elf. _Literally_ bloody elf. Anyway, it’s not like this is my natural state. I’m pretty sure I’m a pretty clean person, generally. Pretty sure. Anyway, bathing while on the run is hard! Not that you’d understand. You don’t have to be on the run constantly for no reason—because you’re not a mage! That must be nice.”

“Is that why they are hunting you?”

“I think? That’s what they… Anyway, shouldn’t be talking. I should be—”

He took a step away. Fenris took a step to follow. Instantly the man stopped, and looked at him, puzzled.

“I—” Fenris felt obligated to explain himself, but he didn’t know what to say. The man had moved, and Fenris had followed thoughtlessly.

“Wait…” the mage said, “Have we…?”

“Have we what?”

The man suddenly put hands on his shoulder, and his face was close, eyes scrutinizing. “You know me, don’t you?” he asked. “Oh, thank the Maker—someone who knows me!”

The touch made Fenris feel… strange. He shrank back, and lightly flicked the mage’s hands off. The mage didn’t seem to be phased by this. In fact, he seemed on the verge of bouncing with excitement.

“You need to tell me everything!” he said, much too loudly. “You don’t understand, I don’t know—well, I don’t know anything!”

“I believe _that_ ,” Fenris snarled. “Keep your voice down.”

The mage immediately covered his mouth, but it was too late. Already, there was some villager shrieking at them, bringing the sound of metal boots clanging after them on the grass, and for some reason, when they kicked the mage to the ground and prepared to drag him off, Fenris stepped in.

And that was how Fenris got his third coat of blood in the very same day.

\--

They spent the whole night escaping, only stopping when they were far away from the village, deep in the thickest part of the woods. They panted, and fell to the ground. Fenris could feel brambles stuck in his hair and could see many more tangled in the mage’s hair and robes. In the dim light, Fenris could see him glistening with sweat and grime.

“Well,” the mage said. “That was something.”

Fenris huffed. “It was.”

“You didn’t have to fight and run with me.”

He shrugged.

“But you did. I’m… well, I guess I was right then?That you know me?”

Fenris look at him. The man’s eyes were bright, hopeful.

“I know, I know. Whatever you knew me as before, you must think I’ve lost it now, right? That I’m going crazy, asking you this, but—I don’t have a single clue who I am!”

Fenris blinked, feeling something sink in his chest while the man prattled.

“As far as I know I just—popped right into existence. My oldest memory is from two weeks ago at most. Where do I come from? Where do I live? What do I even do? All I know is that there were a bunch of Templars ready to stab me in the gut for no good reason, so I slipped away as soon as I could and tried to figure out who the hell I was. Harder than you think, when no one around knows you. So--”

“Mage,” Fenris tried to interrupt, only for him to persist.

“So, you recognize me, right? That’s what all the staring was about earlier—good, good, I should have guessed. So you need to tell me—”

“ _Mage.”_

“There’s just so much! Were we friends? I hope we were friends. It just—it would be helpful, because then you’d know the most about my…”

“Be silent,” Fenris ordered.

The man huffed.

“I don’t know you,” Fenris told him.

It took a second, but the man’s face sank. “You don’t? Then what was all the staring about?” A pause, and then a flicker of something. “Oh, are smelly apostates your type?”

Fenris shoved him. The man gave a harsh, barking laugh, and then his face dropped.

“You really don’t remember me?” he asked. “You haven’t seen me before?”

“I… don’t know,” Fenris admitted.

“What?”

“I don’t remember anything, either.”

\-- 

His name, Fenris found out shortly after, was Anders. Their names were one of the few things either of them could remember.

“Right in the middle of the road, huh?” Anders asked. “Lucky you, not surrounded by people who want to kill you.”

“And you woke up lying down, in a comfortable campsite, next to a warm fire,” Fenris said.

“Yeah. Real comfortable, except for the metal boots kicking me in the ribs. ”

The sniping came naturally—comfortably. Like the two of them were falling back into an oft-repeated pattern. Fenris scowled at Anders’s words, but breathed deeply, feeling some tensions sink out of his shoulders. There was familiarity in this. Reassurance. Grounding.

He was better off now than he had been yesterday. Now, he had a lead—a way to find out who he was.

“So we both lost our memories a short while ago—within the last two weeks,” Fenris said. “I doubt that is a coincidence.”

“You’re probably right,” Anders said. “It’s a bit too similar. I’m guessing… we were acquainted before, and whatever took out your memories is also responsible for taking out mine.”

“Acquainted?”

“Yes. There was—when I saw you, there was just this… feeling. I kept trying to place where I’d seen you before.”

“I felt something as well,” he admitted.

“Really?” the man asked, hopeful.

“Like I had been kicked in the stomach the moment I laid eyes on you.” He wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps that was just the smell.”

Anders huffed. “As if _you_ smell like a rose garden.”

But there was no real hurt or offense take at the jab, Fenris could see. If anything, Anders seemed to be delighted to have someone listening to his chatter, even if it meant they were both shooting snide remarks at each other.

“Where do we go from here, then?” he asked. “Since we don’t know where either of us live?”

“Hm, well,” Anders said. “Since we’re being chased by Templars…”

“Since _you_ are being chased by Templars…”

Anders waved his hand. “We can’t go back to that village. It’s too small, they’ll recognize and report us and bring the Templars back down on us. Our best bet is to go somewhere we can get supplies, but also get lost. Some place with a lot of people.”

“A city.”

Anders nodded. Fenris grunted, thinking hard for a moment. He had no reason to shackle himself to this walking disaster. It would be easy enough to go his own way, avoid trouble, find some other way to kickstart his memories. He wouldn’t need to deal with the smell, then, at least.

But then, he would be alone.

“What’s the closest city?” he asked.

“Kirkwall.” Anders said. “Which, conveniently, is where they were transporting me from—going back is the last thing they’ll expect!”

\--

It was not, in fact, the last thing the Templars expected.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger!! A New Enemy Approaches!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the ideal posting time for fanfics to get traffic, I am sure, but I wanted to throw this damn chapter out there anyway. Hope someone is up to read it at this hour...?

Being on the run alone, as far as Anders could tell from his two weeks of experience, was absolute shit. Being on the run with someone else, so far, was—different. Still shit, but a different brand of shit, with its own unique smell and... shittiness.

Fenris was kind of a pain in the ass.

His moods came in two flavors: broody and pissy. Maker, doing any sort of task with him was impossible. He was so obstinate it made even simple tasks like gathering food take twice as long, since the both of them had to interrupt themselves to disagree every other minute.

Worse, whenever Fenris got near—even when he wasn’t being actively insulting--Anders felt… well,  _ something  _ intensely. His blood would boil, and his heart would race, and he was ready to scream. It was as though the air around Fenris made Anders feel sick. Or just frustrated.

Luckily, he had a few other distractions.

First, there were some documents he’d stolen from the Templars whose custody he had woken up in. Important things that mentioned him being taken to some place for “experimentation” involving “abominations.” Which sounded really terrifying, even if Anders had no idea what that was supposed to mean. There was some mention of some kind of “Rite” failing on him, something about a champion of something—little clues to his past. He re-read the documents often whenever they made camp, trying to see if it stirred anything in his memory.

When that bored him, there was the novel.

He’d nicked it on accident when he’d stolen some Templar’s bag. Turns out Ser Chump liked novels by one “Varric Tethras” a name that had sounded a bit familiar when Anders read it. Perhaps he’d also been a fan before he lost his memory, he thought. With that in mind, he read eagerly.

_ Eliza Bennetus had never met a man as infuriating as Lord Darcia. His haughty demeanor, his sharp eyes, his all-knowing smug smile—they were all absolutely infuriating. And yet, here she was, forced to endure his company… _

It was an amusing tale, if a bit too full of long tangents in which the heroine scathingly listed all the repulsive qualities of the hero. Anders let himself get lost in the story when they made camp in a cave, chuckling a bit at the scathing comments the pair had for each other. After a particularly loud burst of laughter, he noticed Fenris was watching him.

He considered saying something, explaining himself or what he was reading, but Fenris looked so utterly pissy for no reason Anders decided to pointedly ignore him.

\--

The other issue with being on the run with someone, besides said person being a complete and utter ass, was that Anders ended up having to expend more mana healing. And then, when things went south, Anders could only cast a protective barrier upon one person at a time. Which made the inevitable run-in with Templars end badly: Fenris got the barrier because he  _ insisted  _ on charging right into a Templar blade, and Anders got a magebane-laced arrow in his ass.

If only that were a metaphor.

“Why can’t you heal it?” Fenris hissed, flicking the blood of the last Templar off his sword.

Anders cursed back. You’d think Fenris might express some gratitude for the convenient barrier or the healing.

“Can’t heal,” Anders said through grit teeth as he grasped for the arrow. “Until—it—gets—argh!”

He could feel the poison coursing through his veins already. He cursed the Maker for about the third time in the past thirty minutes, took a deep breath, and got prepared to yank again.

Fenris’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Lie down,” he said.

Anders blinked, and then felt his expression sour as he realized what Fenris meant. “You’re gonna put your hands on my ass?” he asked. “How much do you charge?”

Fenris didn’t even scowl. A damn shame. “You’re not funny, mage.”

“Alright, not in the mood for joking?” Anders felt his head swim. “Well, fine. Serious talk, then—I’m a healer. You’re not. I don’t trust you to—to get it out properly.”

Fenris’s head shifted ever so slightly to increase his glare.

“Look, I know what I’m doing—yes, there are risks with doing it myself. I could—break the—and…”

Fenris waited. Anders sighed, throwing up his hands weakly in surrender. “Fine,” he said. “You’re right. You win.”

He lied down on his stomach, tried to think of another smarmy joke to take his mind off the oncoming pain while Fenris pulled up his robe—and  _ boy  _ did that strange nausea shoot up even more with Fenris’s hands on him. Unfortunately, the moment he had thought of one, Fenris was tearing the arrow out and he forgot it in a burst of pain.

“You—got it all?” Anders asked, worried he’d have to deal with some iron in his ass later.

Fenris grunted, and showed him the arrow. It was whole—no little chips seemed to have broken off in the process. Anders sighed in relief.

“At least we know… you can pull out then,” he managed.

Fenris hissed. Anders heard the arrow snap, and saw it lobbed at the wall.

“Heal it now,” Fenris said.

“Mrghh?”

“The arrow is out, so now you should seal the wound.”

“Can’t,” Anders closed his eyes, the world feeling rather swirly at the moment. “Magebane.”

“Mage—what?”

He really wanted to just slip into a nice, quiet rest, or maybe death. Death would be nice. Instead he was slapped in the face and he had to give Fenris an impromptu lecture on what magebane was and how he couldn’t cast any magic until it was out of his system. And then he had to bandage up his ass and was crawling around, trying to find the materials to mix the antidote. Worse, Fenris started to  _ help,  _ growling at him the entire time as though it was Anders’ fault for inconveniencing him by being shot.

At least Anders managed to crack a joke about having another asshole, now. 

When he woke, he had to take a moment to let it sink in that Fenris had  _ helped,  _ when he didn’t have to. The realization felt—uncomfortable. He didn’t  _ want  _ to owe Fenris anything—didn’t want to even think of him as a vaguely helpful figure at all. That he did, well, that left him with that sick, frustrated feeling again. Thinking of how long Fenris had raked through the bushes in the dark, looking for herbs, how he had helped, how he hadn’t left, how careful his touch—

Sick. Yes. Right.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a figure stirring, and then Fenris was looming in front of him.

“Mage.” Anders couldn’t read the expression on his face, but idea that there might be  _ worry  _ there made his stomach drop strangely. Distraction, he decided, he needed distraction. He scrunched up his nose.

“Ew, look who smells awful now,” he said, waving his hand dramatically under his nose. “Is that festering Templar guts I detect on you?”

Fenris snarled, and flung some kind of root at him. “Eat,” he said. “And then heal yourself so we can finally get moving.”

He stormed out of the cave. Anders realized he was grinning after him and stopped, horrified.

\--

Eliza Bennetus’s long tangents about Ser Darcia’s awful eyes and repulsive lips and infuriatingly long eyelashes became tedious, and at any rate he couldn’t read through them while he and Fenris were walking along the road. Anders started to tire of hearing nothing but their own footsteps, so he turned reluctantly to Fenris for entertainment.

“So,” he started at first. “Let’s play a game.”

Fenris’s expression immediately soured.

“It’s called ‘guess what age I am.’”

Fenris kept glaring.

“I guess what age you are, and you guess what age I am.”

“And how,” Fenris asked, “Do we determine the winner, when neither of us remembers past the last two weeks?”

“Everyone’s a winner,” Anders chirped. “Because everyone has fun.”

Fenris scrunched his nose in disgust.

“I think you’re…. thirty,” Anders guessed. “Despite the hair. I don’t see any wrinkles on your face, after all.”

“I judge you to be at least sixty,” Fenris told him.

“Hey!”

“You are wrinkled and hunched, your eyes are sunken, your hair is dull, and you walk like an old man.”

“Thanks,” Anders snapped. “I needed the confidence boost.”

Unfortunately, talking to someone and having someone talk back was a major improvement to the way he’d been living before, even if it meant being lambasted every other moment. So he continued to prod and keep the conversation going. The game of guessing at their ages got worn out quickly, and was replaced by other games, punctuated by tangents of bickering.

The “guess who you were before” game turned out to be a winner.

“I think,” Anders said, close to the campfire. “I was a librarian.”

He had an image. Himself in some kind of library, on a cushioned chair by a warm fire. There was a cat in his lap and a book in his hand.

Fenris scoffed. “You? A librarian? Judging from the blotchiness of your complexion, I would have to say you haven’t spent much time indoors. And what use does a librarian have for advanced healing magic?”

“Spoilsport,” Anders said. “Let me imagine.”

Fenris just scoffed again.

“Well, what do you think you were?”

“A mercenary, it is likely,” Fenris frowned. “I wield a sword, and yet I feel that there are not armies with elves, often.”

“Boring,” Anders said. “Use your imagination. Maybe you were a prince!”

“I thought the purpose was to determine our pasts.”

“The purpose is to have fun and create conversation,” Anders said. “Though that would be a bonus.”

Fenris’s face wrinkled. “Fun,” he said, as though he were allergic to the word.

“Yes,” Anders said. “Fun. Do you think we had families?”

The provoked more of a response. “Perhaps.”

“Do you want to have a family?”

Silence.

Anders kept up the conversation as the days went on, alternating between that and reading through more of the adventures of Eliza and Darcia solving murder cases.

“I changed my mind,” Anders said the next day. “I’m probably a war hero. A veteran of some secret special branch of mage troops.”

Fenris scoffed.

“Actually,” he said the day after. “I think I might have been a duke. Living in wealth, mansions everywhere, all the cats I could want…”

“And I am the Imperial Archon of Tevinter,” Fenris replied.

“There you go,” Anders said. “That’s the spirit.”

\--

Their path finally led them to a lake, and Anders practically fell to his knees.

“Oh thank the Maker,” Anders cried. “Something to drink.”

He started sipping up the water from his cupped hands immediately when he heard Fenris step up behind him, naturally he thought nothing of it. He was too preoccupied with the water, anyway. Sweet, fresh water pouring down his throat, soothing—

The gauntleted hand rested on his back for two seconds before Anders felt himself roughly shoved in the water. Anders came up spluttering.

“What—”

Fenris looked unreasonably smug. “You need to bathe,” he said.

“Son of a—” Anders snapped, still spitting out some water. “As though  _ you’re  _ in pristine condition, you rotting, maggoty wound, you—”

Fenris immediately started unbuckling his armor.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s enough lake for the two of us,” Fenris pointed out.

Anders snorted, turning away. “Right,” he said, pulling off his robe. “Now my robe is all soaked through. It’ll take hours to dry. I’ll have to walk around in a soaking robe.”

“At least that might get the fleas out of it,” Fenris retorted.

“Prick.”

It was refreshing to bathe, even with the annoying elf close by. The feeling of water on his skin, scrubbing away all the dirt and grime and traces of blood was  _ divine.  _ Especially considering what a hot, muggy day it was. He let himself simply enjoy the feeling for a moment.

And then, from a brief glance over his shoulder he noticed Fenris was staring. Anders bristled.

“See something you like?” he asked, a bit sharply.

“Your back.”

“Yes I know, my massive, shapely shoulders are just so tempting,” Anders said, knowing that his shoulders were neither massive nor shapely.

“No,” Fenris said. “It’s not that.”

Anders started, and looked back. Fenris was frowning, concernedly. His hand moved, feeling at the areas of his skin he could not see. There was definitely some rough areas, some rather obvious indents and such. He twisted his neck far enough, and saw a bit of discolored tissue.

“Scars?” he said.

“It appears so.”

Anders contemplated a moment, suddenly searching himself—arms, chest, belly, every inch of skin he could find. There was…a lot, actually. Some smaller, as though made by sharp knives along his upper arm. Some seemed like battle wounds, places he’d taken a blow or a knife to the gut. There was one on his chest, right where his heart was—he must be a  _ really  _ good healer, he supposed.

But the marks on his back were thin, sharp, whip-like. He paused for a moment, considering the implications.

“I...” Anders faltered “This is… this means…”

Fenris seemed a bit hesitant to reply. “What?” he asked, finally.

“I have a  _ tragic backstory,”  _ he said.

Fenris made a noise of pure disgust.

“I’m like Lord Darcia,” Anders said, more to himself. “Full of secrets and painful past experiences! I hope I can find some pretty people to swoon in my arms. That’s what a tragic, scar-filled past does, right? Makes people—”

Anders got a splash in the face.

“What was that for?!”

“Your inane prattle,” Fenris said.

Anders splashed him back. A mistake. It ended in a full splashing war and Fenris splashed harder and faster, quickly overwhelming Anders. Anders had to resort to magic,finally one upped Fenris with a spell that left him soaked, and then laughed.

“Careful,” Anders said. “You’re going to summon a rage demon with that pissy face alone.”

Fenris responded by lunging and shoving Anders under the water. Anders flailed for a moment before he came up gasping and spluttering. Again.

“You’re trying to kill me!” he accused.

“You got water in my eyes,” Fenris told him, as though that justified it. “Anyway, your hair needed a wash.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Well, I guess I just have to make myself pretty, just for you,” he grumbled.

When they got out of the water and got dressed, Anders noticed Fenris watching again. Scrutinizing. Anders ran his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cleanness of it. He’d gotten out all the tangles and washed out some caked dirt, and the result left it practically a new color. As he tied it back, he noticed Fenris watching.

“I supposed your appearance has improved,” he said. “Somewhat.”

Anders scoffed, but didn’t offer any further reply.

\--

They fell into step without a single word during their battles, seemed to create a formation instinctively in which they both covered each other’s weaknesses. The next battle, prompted a revelation.

“So,” Anders pointed out. “We must have fought together before.”

Fenris, for once, agreed.

“Maybe we were mercenaries in the same band,” Fenris suggested.

“I’d like to think I’d lived a cozier life,” Anders said. “In a nice, warm house surrounded by cats.”

He thought to the scars he’d uncovered, and decided to ignore them in favor of imagining going back to a comfortable life where nothing ever bad happened.

They were used to fighting Templars, after a while. Templars were easy: big, obvious, shining targets blustering around, practically begging for Anders to shoot lightning at them. And if it wasn’t a Templar, then it was an ambush by bandits on the road—also easy enough to deal with. The other people who travelled by the same road were nothing to be concerned about, just other travelers who would give the two of them a nod before head off on their merry way.

So of course, when Anders turned around and saw a tiny figure in the distance, on the road, he didn’t worry too much. Just another traveler.

“When do you think we’ll get to the next place with a tavern?” Anders asked. “I could kill for a drink.”

“Funny, you asking me when you’re the one with the more memory between the two of us.”

The traveler in the distance had gotten closer, as they went back and forth. The next time Anders bothered to look over his shoulder, he could make out more details: long black hair hanging over her shoulder, and what looked like a painful limp every time she took a step.

“You know,” Anders said. “I bet I could drink you under the table.”

“That is most certainly false.”

“I take that as a challenge then. Next tavern we stop at, you and me, whatever stuff they have to offer… hey, let’s ask where the next tavern would be.”

So he turned around, and stopped. Fenris seemed to have seen the woman as well, and was staring, frowning. Anders waited for her to be within distance, and then called, “Hey, lady! Do you happen to know…?”

But then, he stopped himself. Because, no, that wasn’t a woman—how could he have thought so? The traveler was a man. A man with short, early-graying hair and a full beard, wearing humble robes and carrying a long staff with him. His eyes were soft, and his smile was earnest and warm—and it did something really silly to Anders, made him kind of hurt in the chest.

He quieted, staring. The traveler was limping forward, eyes on the two of them.

“Hello,” Anders said. “We were just wondering if…”

The man looked past him, and right at Fenris.  It was only right when the man was a few feet away from Fenris that Anders felt it—the strange, sickening aura, the deadness in the man’s eyes, the way he moved forward like a wobbling puppet. The man reached out for Fenris, Fenris staring back at him, looking confused and yet entranced—

Anders flung himself in the way, summoning a barrier immediately. It turned out to be barely in time—the explosion of magic that resulted was instantaneous and destructive, and likely would have killed him. Fenris snapped to attention, suddenly, as though waking up, and the two of them whirled on the man—

It wasn’t a man. Not anymore, at least.

Its hair was long, its frame tall. Its skin was pale as though it had been bled, graying as though it were rotting. And its face seemed to have been beaten and cut up, sliced to bits and then put back together in a deformed. Purple veins cracked along the surface of its skin, blemishing what clear skin remained. Half of its lower lip was torn to reveal teeth, but it bared the rest in a snarl.

It shrieked, and the sound split Anders ears. Its eyes flashed yellow as it attacked with its bare, clawlike hands, tearing right through the magical barrier.

This time, they didn’t win. 

Their attacker moved against them with an unusual combination of magic and brute force. It struck faster than any Templar or wild beast, and yet each strike seemed loaded with the power of a skillfully wielded broadsword. It clawed, hands flashing with magic, and tore through Fenris’s armor with quick underhanded strikes.

And the moment Anders cast healing magic, the thing’s neck snapped at him, eyes flashing. It lunged for him. Before Anders could even move, its claws had latched into his skin, ripping through his flesh.

They didn’t win. In fact, they barely managed to smack the thing down and run for their lives.

When Anders looked over his shoulder, it had risen and was trailing after them as before. Slow. Limping. Eyes fixed on them as they ran.

\--

“What  _ was  _ that?” Fenris asked.

“I don’t know!” Anders stated, wincing as he healed his wounds from the encounter. “It—she—? Had some kind of magic. That’s all I can tell.”

“Not working with the Templars, then,” Fenris murmured. “Perhaps… just a simple encounter with a crazed apostate? I suppose I can mark that as the second I’ve met in the time I recall.”

“I take offense to that.”

They were close to Kirkwall, the next time. They were right on the road, ready to congratulate themselves, and then they saw the figure standing in their path, waiting. For a moment, Anders saw the man again, the one with the graying hair and the kind smile, but it melted away like a mirage, leaving the monster from before.

Anders spat. “Well, great,” he said. “Time to get serious. Time to…”

But he realized, he could see through the disguise, break through the magic now that he knew it was a trick. Fenris, however… Fenris was staring with something like hope.

It held out a hand.

Anders put his hand on Fenris’s shoulder. “Don’t,” he said, quietly.

Fenris didn’t move to shove him off.

“What do you see?” Anders asked.

“A woman. An elven woman. She looks old and motherly.”

“It’s not…”

“I  _ know.” _

It stayed there, as though waiting for Fenris to come.

“So,” Anders said. “It’s between us and Kirkwall.”

Fenris paused, and Anders waited for his input. “Well,” Fenris said, finally. “There are two of us, and one of… it.”

Anders nodded.

“We’ve faced other battles. Tougher, with more opponents.”

“Absolutely.”

“It doesn’t even appear to have a weapon,” Fenris pointed out. “Or much armor.”

Anders nodded. “Right.”

Fenris pulled out his blade. “We can take it.”

\--

It turned out they could not take it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the book Anders is reading is called "Pride and Prejudice and Darkspawn" and no I am not sorry about that. I am a little sorry about the ass scene, but not much and I refuse to apologize for it. 
> 
> Anyway. Guess who's inbox on tumblr was closed, and who just made sure it was open? Maybe give me attention so I can wake up to something nice tomorrow...? pretty please? you will make my day. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up on Sunday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run!! How many caves can our runaways hide in??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot what I was gonna say here so I am just gonna remind everyone I love my girlfriend.

There was too much pain. It flooded his limbs, tearing at him from inside. In his dreams, there were hands on him, clawing, his flesh tearing as he tried to pull away, tried to run. Then, he felt a hand on his chest, a sudden glow of warm energy, and the pain faded.

There were only shadows flitting around him—and he knew them. He knew _her,_ who ran through the courtyard with him, laughing and playing. And _her,_ who gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead, tears in her eyes. And—and someone who took him by the waist, who whispered in his ear, and then the two of them went twirling, stepping over each other’s feet in a joyful dance.

1—2—3—1—2—3—

He knew them all—but they melted away, and as he became aware of the cold hard ground underneath. Their faces vanished like water slipping through his fingers. His eyes flickered, and names on his lips, but the names vanished the moment he opened them.

Fenris found himself staring at the top of a cave, watching some water drip down in some eerie blue light. There was a soft sound in the corner, some kind of muttering broken by quiet chuckles. He opened his mouth, trying to choke out one of the  _ names,  _ but nothing came out.

The pain was back, too.

He slammed his fist against the ground. He saw the light flicker, and the murmuring stopped.

“Well good morning to you too,” came a grumble from the corner.

It was Anders. Fenris tried to move to get up, but found himself too weak.

“Oh no you don’t,” Anders told him. “The poison needs to work through your system. It had you screaming and lighting up all your tattoos just a few hours ago. Lie back for a while. Also, it’s remedy time.”

Remedy time turned out to be an unpleasant experience in which Anders held Fenris’s head and made him choke down some unpleasant herbs and makeshift potions. He spluttered on some of them and Anders, true to his unpleasant nature, seemed to take some kind of gleeful joy in seeing him choke.

“Just wait. You have to take those again in four hours,” Anders told him.

Fenris decided not to feed into his goading, but instead looked around the cave. It was warm and dry, despite him very clearly hearing the heavy thundering of rain outside the walls. “Where…?”

“A cave. We had to take a detour,” Anders said, some kind of mock cheer masking exhaustion. And when Fenris looked deeper into the cave, where there seemed to be a trail leading into the pure darkness, Anders snorted. “Don’t know where that goes. I plan on not finding out. It’s quite cozy up here next to the entrance.”

Fenris snorted.

“You’re  _ welcome,  _ by the way, for dragging you—along with your absurdly large weapon!—all this way, and finding this lovely shelter, and staying up to extract all this weird lyrium poison from you.”

Fenris managed to snort.

“It was no problem, honestly!” Anders said. “Really, you give me  _ too  _ much credit.”

Fenris managed to turn his head. Anders had some kind of blue wisp circling his head. He wasn’t even looking at Fenris, actually. His eyes were fixed on that book Fenris had seen him with nearly every night. He seemed to be engrossed in it now, chuckling at some line before flipping a page.

“Did we get rid of our… pursuer?”

“Well,” Anders said. “I managed to bury whatever-it-was under a rockslide before dragging you off by the foot. That would do it for most… things.”

“And yet you didn’t go and make sure the job was finished,” Fenris said.

Anders rolled his eyes. “You think I was going to go and dig the thing out of the rocks to check on it when you needed healing? Anyway, I’ve been covering our trail all ways I could think of on our way here. With magic. So it’s likely dead, and if it isn’t, we should have lost it now. Again, you’re welcome.”

Fenris found himself about to bite back some harsh retort. But then, he thought of the trouble Anders must have went through, and relented. “I…” he started, finding the words sticking in his throat. “That is to say… you have my…”

“What’s that?” Anders mockingly put a hand to his ear. “Is that  _ gratitude  _ I hear? From our resident cranky elf? Check the sky for flying pigs, everyone!”

“I take it back,” Fenris said. “Clearly, neither gratitude nor graciousness is welcome between us.”

Anders snorted. “Prick.”

Fenris didn’t want to give the mage any more room to whine and demand praise, so he decided to simply shut his eyes, and attempt to sleep.

His tattoos had started to ache again. He didn’t realize how tense it made him until he heard a movement, and opened his eyes to see Anders beside him again, the blue light of the cave flickering in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Anders asked, the snippiness from before gone. “You look pained.”

“I am usually in pain,” Fenris told him. “Constantly. Every moment I draw breath. An unfortunate side effect of being in your presence, I’m afraid.”

“Ha, ha, funny,” Anders said, then frowned. “You’re not actually in pain though, right? You should tell me seriously if you are. Me being your healer and all. Wouldn’t want to kill you because I accidentally put something you’re deathly allergic to in your stomach.”

Anders sounded genuinely concerned. The statement didn’t even seem to be the buildup to some silly punchline. Somehow, this made Fenris scowl harder.

“No more than usual, I suppose,” he answered curtly. “There was… a brief reprieve as I slept, but it has returned.”

Anders frowned. “Wait. You mean pain from the poison, right?”

“It was there before our pursuer attacked,” Fenris said.

Anders’ brow was furrowed. “And you feel this all the time?” he asked. “Where is it?”

Fenris swallowed. “Within my tattoos. It’s… burning.”

“Shit,” Anders said. “Of course. The lyrium would—that’s awful.”

Fenris immediately regretted telling him. Hearing the mage’s voice go all soft and croon at him like he were a child was—well, it was making his stomach sick. Quite literally.

“Hold on,” Anders said. “Let me try something.”

In a moment, Anders hands were on him. Fenris felt his stomach recoil, hissing as Anders traced his tattoos. In a second, however, there was a soothing blue glow emanating from Anders’s hands, and the pain started to melt away, as it had in the dream. The touch seemed to erase it, until Fenris was sinking bonelessly into the rocky ground.

Any apprehension he had vanished. But then, he also slipped quietly into blissful sleep.

\--

When Fenris woke again, he could tell he had mostly recovered. The light in the cave had dimmed.He flicked his eyes around and saw Anders in the corner, slumped against the wall, head rolled to the side. Sleeping.

Fenris took a moment to look at him. There had been such a change since their first remembered meeting and now. The time at the lake had made all the difference. The dirt cleaned from Anders’ skin, the grime washed away to reveal his true hair color, and the smell  _ blessedly  _ gone… it made the man—well, at the very least it reduced his general physical repulsiveness. Thinking than, and thinking of his healing aura, the warmth from before as the pain eased away, it made him feel—

_ Irritated,  _ Fenris decided.  _ Worse than before. _

He managed to sit up. Anders stirred and grumbled at him. They didn’t bother continuing their journey, however, as Anders told him they still should take some time to let the poison fade away, and also it was raining even more heavily outside than before. Fenris ate instead, watching as rain poured outside. In the corner, Anders started to mumbled to himself in between

“Are you ranting to yourself like some kind of madman?” Fenris asked.

Anders shot him a look from over the page. “I was reading, thank you very much.”

“Then why do you not read to yourself?”

“Because it’s way too quiet here?” Anders suggested, his tone a bit sharp. “Because it feels like there should be more voices in my head, or something? Because there’s nothing to do, because I like to  _ hear  _ things instead of just sit silently in dark, enclosed spaces? Because it’s… empty.”

Anders paused as though to hear the slight echo of his own words in the cave.

“Everything is empty.”

For a moment, Fenris felt strangely like offering reassurance, but before he could consider it fully Anders was sniping back at him, irritated.

“Anyway, you’re one to talk about seeming like a madman,” Anders snapped. “Mr. Broody Elf, Mr. ‘I-slam-my-fist-into-the-ground-whenever-I-wake-up.’ Mr. …”

“You’re prattling,” Fenris told him.

“You’re welcome,” Anders said with mock cheer. “Glad I can break up the monotony of your brooding as you stare soulfully into the rain. Maker, you’re a regular Lord Darcia.”

“You keep saying that name.” Fenris pointed out. “Who is ‘Darcia?’”

“Ah!” Anders brightened. “Character from the book I just finished. Maybe give it a read.”

He tossed it at Fenris. Fenris caught it, and looked. The cover was faded and torn. He could make out perhaps one word plaster over it.

… _ and … _

“It’s rather amusing,” Anders said, talking as though he had been waiting for Fenris to ask him about it. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he was just waiting for some excuse to launch into more inane prattle, and Fenris had given it to him. “It’s about these pissy nobles who go to balls and also occasionally kill darkspawn. They’re rather scathing towards each other. You can give it a read while we’re stuck here, if you like. Go ahead.”

Fenris frowned, and flipped open the book, turning to the first page. There were indeed words. Black ink markings on the page, all lined up very neatly.

“Ah,” Fenris said, suddenly realizing.

“What?” Anders asked. “Have you read it before? It didn’t ring many memory bells for me but…”

“No.”

“No?”

Fenris closed the book.

“You aren’t even going to try? I swear it’s a good read. Do you take me for someone with bad taste? I’ll have you know…”

“I can’t  _ read.” _

Anders stared. “What?”

“This doesn’t make sense to me,” Fenris said, holding up the book. “I can’t read it.”

Anders frowned. “Maybe it’s part of the memory loss? I mean, you sound… are you sure you can’t read any of it?”

Fenris flipped through the book. “’And,’” he read. “’Can’, ‘saw’, ‘was.’”

He regretted it immediately. He shouldn’t have revealed this. No doubt Anders was going to mock him ceaselessly about it now. Instead, however, Anders came close, and took the book from his hands.

“Well then,” he said. “I’ll just have to read it  _ for  _ you.”

This turned out to be a disaster. The mage did  _ voices,  _ rasping and growling as “Ser Darcia” and talking like a strangled whistle whenever reading “Eliza’s” lines. Finally after throwing something at the mage, he conceded to use less abhorrent voices as he read, and the story became almost pleasant to listen to. He found himself snorting as Eliza mocked Darcia in particularly witty fashions, and the descriptions of the revulsion she felt were rather amusing.

“I feel something similar around you,” Fenris said. “Skin crawling, nausea, like I’m about to vomit…”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “Flattering,” he said. “You do realize Eliza ends up marrying him later on in the book?”

Fenris blinked. “What?”

“Yep.”

Anders waggled his eyebrows. Fenris growled, infuriated.

“You mock me,” Fenris said. “They can’t stand each other.”

Anders covered his mouth with his hand,

“You’re taking advantage of my illiteracy to feed me these lies,” he accused.

“No, no,” Anders said. “They get married.”

“An arranged marriage. Their parents force it.”

“Sorry, no,” he said. “A marriage of love. All those crawly feelings? Blossoming attraction. I’m glad I know how you really feel about me, Fenris.”

Fenris growled.

“It’s alright. I understand,” Anders sighed. “I am just so  _ obviously  _ and undeniably attractive. Absolutely irresistible, I’m sure.”

He spoke with confidence that could only belong to someone who was completely convinced he was hideous—but was going to torment others with his awful vanity anyway. He winked, and Fenris felt his face heat up—with fury, of course. For a moment, he considered wringing the mage’s neck, but settled for chucking the nearest object—a rock, as it turned out—to pelt him with. Anders oofed as it hit him in the face, and readied himself to dodge as Fenris picked up another one.

Then, there was a crack from outside, a stick snapping. Fenris froze.

“Huh?” Anders asked. “You’re not gonna--?”

“Quiet.”

Fenris turned to look outside the cave again, listening. It was difficult to hear anything underneath the pouring rain, but it was there—something moving through the grass outside with slow, lopsided steps. He shot a look to Anders, and that apparently communicated all Anders needed to know, because Anders eyes immediately bugged out.

There was something outside the cave.

Anders scrambled, and Fenris followed. Fenris’s heart slammed in his chest as he reached for his sword, while Anders hurriedly gathered what little supplies they had and threw the pack of them over his shoulder. Fenris did not take his eyes off the entrance of the cave, but he felt it when Anders joined him, staff in hand, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

The steps got closer. Louder. They waited, tense.

A deer poked its head into view.

Both of them jumped, startling the poor thing and sending it running right back into the rain. Fenris’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding, but Anders burst into laughter.

“A deer!” he shrieked. “Oh Maker.”

Fenris grunted.

“That’s good though,” Anders said. “And here I thought we might be in trouble or something.”

Fenris sighed. “I am… relieved.”

“Me too,” Anders said. “Honestly, I am almost entirely out of mana. I might be able to cast a fire-fart at any pursuers, but that would be it. But still—a deer!”

Fenris found himself smiling wanly. “I suppose I am a bit paranoid.”

“No, paranoid’s good,” Anders said. “Anyway, we…”

And then, there was a noise from the dark. From the deep, deep tunnel that was the cave, that they had conveniently turned their back to. And then, Fenris heard a lopsided set of footsteps, and a ragged breath.

They both whirled. Fenris saw  _ her  _ again, the old elven woman with saddened wrinkled around her eyes and nearly white hair streaming down her shoulders. He didn’t know what Anders saw, but it must have been quite different because the mage let out a giant, terrified shriek.

“No way!” he wailed. “How did it even  _ get  _ there?!”

“By all accounts, it doesn’t make much—”

But before Fenris could finish his sentence, Anders was yanking him by the arm.

“Run!” he said. “Just  _ run.” _

_ \-- _

They fled.

Fenris struggled, his limbs weakened. There was also pain—in his tattoos and his gut—that made moving quickly difficult. He supposed that was the point of the poison Anders spoke of—to react with his tattoos and weaken him in this fashion. Anders didn’t take his hands off him, but kept pulling him ahead. Fenris could feel soothing healing magic washing over him whenever Anders’ mana recovered, easing the pain enough for him to keep moving.

The thing did not run. It hobbled. But it caught up eventually whenever they rested, found them when they hid.

“We need to kill it,” Fenris said.

“While we’re weak and I’m out of mana?” Anders asked.

“Somehow, eventually,” Fenris said. “For now…”

“Keep running?”

“Right.”

They tried everything. They tried evasive maneuvers to confuse their pursuer, masking their scent, creating false trails—it failed. When Anders had his mana, he set traps, made the mountain around them burn so that it would sear the skin of anyone who climbed after them.

“That should at least slow it down,” Anders huffed.

But when the creature limped its way to the face of the mountain, it only hesitated a moment, looked up at them, expression unfathomable. And then, started to climb.

“ _ Vishante Kaffas!”  _ Fenris cursed.

Anders swore with him. “Is the spell not working?”

But as it climbed—quickly, more quickly than any of its movements had been thus far—they started to see it. It limbs did sear, the flesh melted and burned. It only clawed faster, its teeth gnashing sharply. And the sight—hurt.

Fenris still saw a woman—and now it was a woman with pain written all over her face as she climbed, and Fenris felt that pain in his chest, for some reason.

Anders was gripping him, and Fenris found himself gripping back.

And then Fenris noticed what he was doing.

“Let go, mage.”

“Ah,” Anders said, disentangling his hands. “Right.”

\--

They hadn’t slept and hadn’t eaten in much too long, so when they finally managed to throw the thing’s trail—for the moment—and found another cave at the edge of the mountain, Fenris collapsed. Quite literally, on his face. He then hissed.

The pain lessened as he stopped moving, but his marks still throbbed.

He barely noticed Anders was mixing another “remedy” until it was being poured down his throat. And then, Fenris simply rested, closing his eyes and he heard Anders pace around, muttering to himself. Eventually, he felt the healing aura he recognizes from before, and the pain slipped away.

He cracked open his eyes. Anders eventually stopped pacing, and sat down, eyes heavy. He turned to look at Fenris, and sighed.

“So,” he said.

Fenris waited.

“So… do you think you had any pets, Fenris?”

Fenris choked. “Are you back to that game?” he said. “Have you forgotten our circumstances? This is not the time to joke around.”

Anders smiled, but his jaw was set. “I feel like you’d do well with cats. You don’t strike me as much of a dog person.”

“Pfaugh,” Fenris said, but gave in. “I do not believe I had any such pets.”

“Hm.”

Anders was quiet a moment, brow furrowed.

“What if—we were married,” he said, wistfully.

Fenris recoiled. “Me? Married to  _ you?” _

“No, I meant what if we were both married to different people,” Anders said, annoyed. “Though I’m flattered you instantly jumped to being linked with me in holy matrimony.”

Fenris snorted. He was about to say more, but Anders continued on.

“I’m thinking I had a husband,” Anders said. “We ran a shop together. A flower shop. Three adopted kids. A big house. Lots of cats.”

Fenris frowned, a bit miffed they had moved on so quickly from the previous topic. He had wanted to lambast Anders further and assure him that he would never be so joined to him.  Instead, he decided to move with the flow of the conversation.

“You  _ always  _ talk of cats,” he groused.

“Because they’re amazing,” Anders said. “Let me dream.”

There was a bit of thunder outside. Anders was oddly quiet, and in spite of everything Fenris found himself trying to conjure some image of himself, of who he was before all this. He could think of nothing.

“Anyway,” Anders said. “You don’t think you had someone?”

The question sounded gentle, but Fenris was cautious. This was likely the lead in to some other joke the mage would have at his expense. Still, he found himself trying to picture it—someone at his side, someone waiting for him when he found where his home should be, someone wrapping hands around his waist, twirling— _ dancing _ —

But Fenris cut it off.

“I am sure I had you,” he said, and then, getting a funny look from Anders, he added, “To pester and annoy me at every turn. No need for a wife to do all that, then.”

“I’m touched,” Anders said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “But picture this: we get to Kirkwall, and immediately at the gates we’re swarmed by kids— _ your kids.” _

“No.”

“There are eight of them,” Anders said. “All so happy to see their papa again! Did you bring anything back for them? Any sweets? Oh, and there’s mama!”

Fenris scrunched up his nose. He could not picture himself—not with a wife, or children, or pets. He saw himself alone, in empty rooms. Or maybe with… but  _ that _ was a foolish notion.

“I wonder,” Anders mused, “I wonder what we really were, to each other.”

Fenris thought of some smart comment about being too much of a pain to each other to have been mere casual acquaintances, but Anders’ somber look ruined it.

“Anders,” he started.

Anders immediately shot up. “Anyway!”

Fenris groaned. The mage seemed to be in such a strange mood.

“I thought of something,” Anders said. “To keep the… thing away. If I’m right about what it is.”

“Can you stay on a topic for a single moment?” Fenris asked.

“This is important,” Anders said brightly. “Just stay here. It’s some… wards, I just remembered. Something about Adralla. Anyway, anyway, anyway! I’m going to start on that now.”

The process Anders went through seemed a bit hasty. He created some glyphs around the cave, still mumbling to himself, and then he was outside of it, raising his staff. Fenris saw the barrier raise, and heard Anders crowing.

“Alright, I get it, you did it,” Fenris told him. “Now stop hurting my ears.”

“Oh shut it,” Anders said. “I’m allowed to be proud of myself. This barrier is going to keep any demon, abomination, or anything vaguely demon or blood magic related from entering! Which probably covers our problem. I hope.”

Fenris expected him to come back inside, but he didn’t. Instead, he took one step forward, stopped, and frowned.

“Mage,” Fenris said.

“That’s me, a mage,” Anders said. “A mage who thinks… it would probably be a good idea to stretch his legs. Go for a walk.”

Fenris blinked, wondering if Anders was really being as stupid as he seemed.

“Collect some herbs, get some fresh air, see the sights,” he rattled off.

“You are being foolish,” Fenris said. “That—it’s still out there.”

“Yes, well,” Anders laughed, hollowly. “Best keep on the move then.”

Fenris realized. “You’re leaving.”

Anders fidgeted, looking away.

“To—to divert its attention from me?” Fenris could not believe this. “Of all the…”

“What?! No!” Anders said defensively. “Do I strike you as someone remotely self-sacrificing?  That I would throw myself in the line of fire for you? Well, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself!”

“Get back in here, then.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a step back and swallowed. Fenris saw creases of worry form around his face.

“Just don’t leave the cave,” Anders said, managing a smile. “No matter what you might see out here. Got it?”

And with that ominous bit of advice, he fled.

\--

It was raining again when Fenris heard footsteps. He stirred, looked outside, and his vision blurred. He could not see the droplets of rain, or the clouds. Everything seemed soft and bright, like a dream of a summer’s day.  Even the sound of the rain stopped, the air suddenly deadly silent.

It was not Anders outside. 

The woman he saw was young, red hair streaming down her shoulders. When Fenris looked into her eyes, he saw his own staring back at him.

Fenris’s head spun at the sight, heart practically leaping into his throat. But he clenched his fist, recalling what Anders said, recalling that  _ thing’s  _ power. It could stand out there all it liked, take whatever form--silent, mindless thing that it was. It could not--

“Leto.” The tones of the word rolled over him like the softest music. “I found you.”

The name hit him like a slap in the face. The thing--could it speak? Or was this…?

“Who are you?” he demanded.

But she didn’t respond to his question. Instead, Fenris’s vision grew yet softer, and her voice rang more strongly.

“Come with me,” she said. “Let us return to where we belong.”

And Fenris forgot everything for a moment. He stood. The pain was back, screaming from inside his skin without Anders’ healing to soothe it, making it hard to move--and yet he was still about to run outside and throw himself in the young woman’s arms. He longed to. Her eyes and her voice and the very air around her pulled him, called to him.

But he stopped himself, supported himself against the cave wall, and took a deep breath.

“You think your magic can fool me?” Fenris asked. “If you know who I am, then say it. Prove yourself. Come into this cave.”

The woman stared at him, impassively. 

“You can’t, can you?” Fenris asked. “The wards prevent you. Cease this useless disguise. I know what you are.”

The woman did not move, and her face didn’t even twitch. There was only the briefest flicker--a flash in which Fenris saw something underneath the magic--distorted, torn flesh, cracked purple veins, sharp teeth baring in a snarl. 

Fenris jumped back, alarmed, but the vision vanished, and only the facade of the red-headed girl remained. Now, however, there was magic--visible, purple magic--bleeding into the air around her. Around  _ it.  _

“These barriers,” it said, and now its voice was not soft but raspy and layered, “will not hold if the mage that cast them falls.”

Fenris’s heart stopped. 

“We shall find your mage,” it said, eyes flashing. “We shall put an end to this.”

And then it turned, and limped away. Fenris saw another flash of its true form--mangled frame, blood seeping from its shoulder--and then it vanished into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this chapter was. Long. Each chapter seems to get longer, bleh. Too much work. And it was less funny too! Hope it didn't ruin the tone overall? There will definitely be more humor in the future.
> 
> Now give me attention please.... pleeeeaaaaase. I live for attention.


	4. There and Back Again - A Mage's Journey by a Stressed Out Apostate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of running!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my original plan was to update twice a week, but once a week is good, right? right??? Okay well I will try to get back to twice a week anyway. This has just been a hard week.

The ground was still muddy from all the rain, and Anders found himself slipping in it several times, getting his robe smeared with mud in the process. He cursed, breathless, as he curried. When the cave was finally out of sight, lost behind him in the darkness and the thick of the woods, he stopped to catch his breath, and think.

_Why couldn’t I go in the damn cave?_

The moment he’d created the wards he’d felt… something bad. And when he’d stepped towards the cave, he’d been overwhelmed with alarm. Some instinct screamed that if he stepped any closer, he’d die. He must have fudged the spell. Or misremembered its purpose—funny! It was almost as though he had memory issues.

Maybe the spell was actually anti-magic, and therefore also affected mages. That didn’t feel quite right, but it was his best guess. Perhaps he should have told Fenris as much, before wordlessly booking it. Oops! Why hadn’t he told Fenris, anyway?

Best not to think of it.

He trudged on, until he realized he didn’t know where he was going, so he stopped again, and found himself looking back.

He didn’t need to rush. The thing wasn’t after him. It was after Fenris.

The realization had hit him in the cave. It was obvious when he thought of the details. The way the thing always went for Fenris first, only lunging at Anders if he got in the way. The way it had some kind of concoction specifically designed to incapacitate Fenris, but absolutely no magebane. It was after Fenris. Anders, away from him, had nothing to fear.

But Fenris was alone.

Anders shoved aside that niggling worry. He’d put up wards. If they kept Anders out, they should keep the thing out. And he couldn’t just stick around, undefended and drained of mana, could he? He’d be of no help to Fenris that way. He’d just be a sitting duck.

He kept walking.

He imagined how Fenris had jumped in to defeat Templars for him, how he’d even torn an arrow out of his ass and dug around for healing herbs with him. And then he imagined the thing having some clever, unseen way of getting past the barrier—that Anders was a fool for thinking his spells would be so infallible, when he didn’t even know what it _was._

He stopped again, and waffled.

Did he _really_ have to go back? And probably die, just because of someone who had saved him earlier?

But then, he didn’t know where else to go, did he?

Traveling alone was such a drag, anyway.

He cursed himself, and turned around.

A scheme slowly hatched in his mind—laying a trap outside the cave, waiting for the thing to take the bait, defeating it that way. But it had to be a really good trap, something stronger than any spell he’d used before, something with fire, something—Maker, what if it was already too late? He had to hurry, had to—

A shadow moved in the forest.

Anders jumped and thrust his staff forward, heart slamming in his chest. But there was only stillness. For a moment, he could believe it had been his imagination. But then he saw the darkness shift. A darkened figure melding in and out of sight. That limping gait, those quiet rasping breaths...

And then a blood-drained face appeared out of the shadows.

Anders forgot his plans, and turned right back around to run the fuck away.

\--

Considering how slowly the thing moved, it was pretty pathetic that he actually got caught by it at all. Perhaps it was the power of persistence. Or maybe some kind of spell it used to move faster when no one was looking. Or maybe Anders was just really that slow—he blamed the robes.

He’d probably think of another reason when the thing stopped hitting him.

He also could not _believe_ the thing had managed to get his staff.

“You know,” he rasped. “You’re not really… using that thing properly. Efficiently, I’ll grant you. But don’t you think you should use a magic staff for, I don’t know, magic?”

He was on his stomach, head swimming. He kept his face on the ground, eye closed. The blows had been quick and painful, perfectly aimed to incapacitate him physically, but with no magic. Why was that? Probably because it was intellectually equivalent to a wild animal, barely capable of reasoning--

A boot connected with his side, scattering his thoughts. In a moment, he was rolled over. He squeezed his eyes further shut at first, but eventually opened them. His vision immediately blurred. It was harder to crack through the illusion when exhausted, beaten, and out of mana. Everything flickered, but the figure before him settled on the visage of a man with grey hair and eyes. In this form, the thing stared at him. Waiting.

Anders wondered, uncomfortably, why he hadn’t been killed yet.

“Taking a moment to appreciate my good looks?” he tried. Not that he thought it was capable of comprehending his brilliant humor. Still, it fixed him with some kind of look, and seeing that look on _that_ face made him shudder.

“Undo the wards.”

Anders blinked, unsure he was hearing correctly. Yes, the thing’s mouth had moved. Yes, words had come out.

“The slave is none of your concern,” it said, voice smooth. Anders could feel the magic in its speech, lulling him, melting through his mental boundaries. “He will be nothing but trouble to you. Undo the wards and continue your journey uninhibited.”

Anders stared, stunned as though he had just been smacked across the head again.

“Oh,” he managed to squeak out. “Oh, the thing _talks_.”

There was a split second before it reacted. And then, Anders was being yanked up by the throat, and his head repeatedly slammed into a tree. Just when he was certain his head would be bashed in, it stopped, and now there was only the feeling of a clawed hand around his throat, strangling him even as it held him up.

He cracked an eye open. There was no façade this time, no kindly looking man, just the ugliest, most terrifyingly deformed face he had ever seen inches away from him, eyes gleaming yellow, its bare muscle contorted with rage.

“I am _not_ a thing.”

For all the poison dripping from its tone, its voice had none of the magic. There was no double voice, no layers, no compulsion. It sounded human, even. But the claws around his neck deepened, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to think about it deeply. His internal screams of _I’m going to die!_ drowned out such thoughts quite nicely.

But for some reason, he didn’t die. The claws retracted, and he could breathe again, and when he opened his eyes, the thing was looking at him. Waiting. _Thinking._

He wondered, panicked, why he was still alive. And then he realized--killing him here, dissolving the wards while it was this far away from Fenris—now that would just cause Fenris to flee before the thing caught up. Wait until it was close, and then it would have Fenris close, backed into a cave.

The thing was weighing its options. And then, without saying another word, it came to a decision. He saw the flash of determination in its eyes. It struck quickly at his gut, making him double over before it began to start dragging him away.

He _had_ to escape.

Anders had a sudden thought about farces, and stage slapstick, and summoned all the melodrama deep inside him.

He snapped his head and looked behind the creature. “Oh no!” he squealed. “Fenris!”

It was shameful how well that trick worked.

\--

It was amazing that he managed to escape. Not amazing that he managed to outrun the thing, of course, because it still did nothing but hobble feebly forward afterward. Still, he felt like he ought to congratulate himself for getting out of its grip while it was distracted. Without his staff, too!

…which left him on the run, without his staff. But he preferred not to think about that.

He stared at the blood running down his arm, feeling sick and euphoric. He pressed a torn piece of robe to the open wound, and moved on.

Fenris was still in the cave. Seemed he’d listened to Anders’ advice after all. Anders was actually surprised—part of him had been expecting to find Fenris long gone. He snapped up the moment Anders approached the cave.

“Fenris!” Anders said. “We need to go. Right now. That thing is back and it’s chasing me and I _really_ can’t keep it up much longer.”

Fenris stared, jaw clenched. Anders didn’t know what the expression meant—Maker, the elf was hard to read—so he continued on.

“Look,” he said. “The wards are good and all, bought us some time, but they are _definitely_ going down soon, one way or another, because that thing is about to bloody kill me. With extra blood. So let’s get a move on.”

Fenris still didn’t say anything, but stared darkly. Anders got impatient.

“Look, we need—”

“You will not fool me,” Fenris said. “Begone, creature.”

Anders stared, and felt his jaw drop open. “What?”

“Your guise is not even clever,” Fenris said. “You can’t even conjure up the mage’s staff. And once again, you can’t enter here.”

Anders froze. Oh Maker, he’d really fucked himself over this time. “No, I can’t, but it’s not because—it’s not that I’m a demon, or _abomination_ or—”

Fenris stared, impassive.

“—I just flubbed the spell, okay!” Anders said. “It’s possible. It can happen. I can prove I’m not a—”

“I will not listen to you lies!”

Anders swore. “Listen, you obstinate elf, I am going die out here! Painfully! Unless you can get your head out of your—”

Before he could finish, a rock hit his face.

“What the— _Fenris_?!”

But Fenris already somehow had a handful of rocks ready to pelt at him, and pelt he did. It was all Anders could do to dodge.

“I’m not—just listen—bloody—argh!”

Fenris had a mean throw. Those rocks were deadly accurate, and they hurt. Anders cursed and leaped about like a nanny goat for many long minutes before Fenris finally ran out of rocks.

“Okay,” Anders said. “Now that I have your attention…”

The next rock came faster than he expected.

“Oh, come on!”

“Anders is out of your reach,” Fenris said. “That is why you came back. He escaped. You will not manipulate me with my concern for him.”

Anders opened his mouth, blinked, and closed it. “You were… worried about me?”

He didn’t even have the energy to make it properly sarcastic, but he got another rock in the face nonetheless.

“Well, fine!” Anders snapped. “Be that way. I’ll just—”

He barely heard the rustle in the woods behind him. But he did, and he whipped around just in time.

_Shit._

He didn’t get to see the look on Fenris’s face, because he became immediately transfixed by the creature. And it was transfixed on him as well, that same magic bleeding from it, that same façade of a kindly man.

Anders ran, furiously tugging and the makeshift bandage around his arm. He glanced over his shoulder and got one last look at Fenris. He stood, eyes not on Anders but on the creature, expression unreadable. He did not move to help.

Anders kept running.

\--

The thing cornered him again, because if course it did. This time, he managed to practically run off a cliff, and then when he’d turned around he noticed the thing was there, emerging from the shadows. It once again wore the guise of the kindly man and held half of Anders’ staff, broken off with one end splintered sharp enough to stab.

“Well good to see you too!” Anders said, realizing how absolutely drained he was, of energy and mana and even blood, now. Still, his head whirled. This thing was smart. It could be goaded. It could be provoked. “I’m flattered to be pursued so… uh… persistently.”

Anders could listen to his blood racing in his ears for a few seconds before the thing opened its mouth.

“We had no issue with you,” it said, and the echoes were back in its voice. “Were you not in the way, we would have troubled you no further.”

“’We’?” Anders asked. “Oh great. Do I need to worry about hundreds of other zombies like yourself crawling out of the ground now? …er, are you a zombie?”

Watching it take a step closer with that sharpened stick made his inside curl with horror. But he decided to keep talking. Fish for… some kind of information.

“What _are_ you, anyway? An abomination? But you _look_ like a revived corpse. A particularly chewed up corpse to boot. And how do you keep finding us anyway? I bet I know the answer to that. Vial of blood, glows when the target is close, starts with an ‘f’ and ends with an ‘e.’?” Anders frowned. “Wait. No. I meant—”

When the creature moved in for the kill, it moved like lightning. Anders barely saw it until the stick was jammed in his gut, and shortly after that, everything went white.

When he came to, he realized he couldn’t feel his leg.

In a short, painful amount of time—in which he had managed to make him hoarse with screaming—he realized couldn’t feel the other one, either.

“I don’t… suppose you’ll leave me alive?” he asked. “Drag me back to kill me in a more convenient location?”

He didn’t get an answer. Instead, he felt the sharpened stick above his heart--and then, its absence. Anders let his head roll back, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself. He could only faintly hear the thing’s uneven footsteps, and thus did not notice when they stilled. He didn’t hear a rustle, either. But he did hear a rumbling voice.

“Back away.”

Anders’ eyes shot open. He strained his neck to see, but everything was too blurry. “Fenris?” he managed.

“You are here,” the thing said. “Submit yourself. Return to your master.”

“My master?” There was a strange note in Fenris’s voice. “I was a slave?”

“What you  _are,_ isa pet,” Anders could practically feel acid dripping from each word. Fenris took a hissing breath.

“You know my past,” he said. “Tell me.”

This earned no response.

“Tell me where my family—if I have a family,” Fenris demanded. “You will tell us everything you know about our pasts.”

Anders watched the creature. Its face was impassive. It raised the staff…

“Just run,” Anders said, unsure if anyone could even hear his weak voice. “Fenris, just go.”

But he did not.

Ander barely got to see the fight. He just saw frenzied flashes through the haze of pain and blood—a sword swinging, the glow of lyrium, claws, kicking, biting…

In the end, they defeated it by accident. One of the ledges breaking off, Anders managing a single lucky spell, and then finally Fenris slamming his sword right through the creature’s chest.

Fenris watched it tumble off the cliff before turning to Anders.

“Fenris,” Anders said. “You…”

“Came to help,” he grunted, exhausted.

“Is it gone?” Anders asked. “No one could survive a sword to the chest, right?”

Fenris looked over the edge. “It… lies still.”

Anders sighed. Fenris was looking at him with some kind of genuine worry, stumbling over. He collapsed to his knees in front of Anders. Anders was fading fast, but suddenly Fenris’s face seemed very clear, his face creased.

“You didn’t run,” Anders said.

“You came back,” Fenris replied.

And that, for the moment, was enough. Anders blearily thought of some comment about his new hero carrying him off into the sunset, but Fenris collapsed and rolled over on the ground before he could summon the strength to quip. Anders decided to follow his good example, and slept.

\--

When they woke up, there was no corpse lying still at the bottom of the canyon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (insert plea for attention here, followed by wild gesturing to the link to my tumblr)
> 
> Okay, but I'd like to thank everyone who's commented so far. It kept me going this week?? Like, I am so shocked I am following through with a 13 chapter fic, but a big part of the reason I am is the nice feedback. Especially the people who are speculating and questioning what's going on--you rock. Consider yourselves showered in gratitude.
> 
> Best case scenario: this will update on Wednesday. Worse case: it will update on Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for once, the threat of imminent death and recapture isn't in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was up writing this all night and now I feel sick. But I am posting on time, and that's that counts.

“Right arm socket. Left shoulder. Legs. Legs again. Knees, right ankle, right hip—and I’ve got the  _ worst  _ ache in my back, though I don’t think it’s due to any broken bones.” Anders stared up at the sky, squinting at the light. He would have covered his eyes, but even that motion felt like it would take too much effort, now. “Also, I’m hungry. You?”

“Shoulder. Ankle.”

“Hm. Any chance you could slide over here and help me set my legs?”

He heard Fenris move, and hiss painfully. Anders’ head rolled to the side and he saw Fenris collapse right back down.

“Ribs,” Fenris added thickly.

“Brilliant,” Anders said. “I really hope that thing doesn’t resurrect right now and run across us like this.”

“Or the Templars,” Fenris pointed out.

“Fuck,” Anders said. “Or those guys.”

It was a challenge to set bones for healing while both of them were injured this way. It took a lot of painful shifting around on both of their parts, a lot of slow cooperation. Likely, it wouldn’t have been possible at all, if not for Anders’ healing aura diminishing the pain.

“Well, our—er, new friend certainly likes  _ you,”  _ Anders said, right after he’d managed to heal Fenris’s last damaged rib. “Very few breaks, mostly fractures. Easy enough to heal. None of this will even leave a scar.”

He expected some kind of retort from Fenris about how he simply had managed—unlike Anders—to avoid the heavier blows. Instead, Fenris stayed quiet. Anders gave a dramatic sigh.

“And here I thought what we had was special,” he moaned, throwing the arm he’d just healed over his chest. “Me, fleeing for my life. The creature, pursuing relentlessly, slamming me against several trees. But no, it fancied you all along.”

“Or,” Fenris said darkly. “It wished to preserve valuable property.”

The observation hit Anders like a slap in the face. He guiltily opened his mouth to apologize for joking about it, but Fenris cut him off.

“Your leg still needs to be set.”

Healing up the last of the bones and aches left them both quiet. Fenris’s eyes were dead. It didn’t sit right with Anders. It made him feel uneasy and guilty and before he knew it he was putting a reassuring hand on Fenris’s shoulder.

Fenris turned to look sharply at him, and Anders felt nervous, icy prickles running up his arm from the contact. 

“So you know,” Anders said, swallowed under Fenris’s rather intense glare. “You’re a big, strong, self-confident elf. I’m sure you already know this, but—you aren’t anyone’s property. Much less anyone’s…”

He didn’t want to say “pet” out loud. Just the memory of that monster spitting that word at Fenris made him sick. So the word dangled in the air between them.

“I clearly was, once,” Fenris said.

“And clearly you threw off your chains in a mad dash for freedom!” Anders told him. “Impressive! Heroic! And now you have slaughtered the fiend who would re-enslave you.”

“One fiend,” Fenris said. “My master is, likely enough, still alive and ready to send more.”

The words made fire flare up in Anders’ chest. “And we will kill them,” he told Fenris, and it felt like he was barely restraining himself from screaming. “We will kill them, and your master, and then we will hunt down every last monster who commits the injustice of presuming to own another person.”

Fenris’s stare didn’t waver, but Anders suddenly realized he was gripping his shoulder rather hard, and let go. He withdrew in favor of pacing back and forth, waiting for his heart to stop racing and the sudden roaring he could hear in his ears to calm down.

“Hunt them down,” Fenris prompted. “And…?”

Anders turned back, managing a smile and a chirping tone. “And eat them.”

He couldn’t read Fenris’s expression at this. He simply held Anders’ gaze for a moment, and then turned away. Likely, he was annoyed at Anders’ posturing.

“We need to move,” Fenris said. “Let’s just be grateful that we got rid of a single one of them.”

But such gratefulness was short lived. They looked down the canyon, found it empty, and Anders swore so loudly that it caused rockslide.

\--

Still, their journey back was uninhibited. They trailed back to the cave, collected their supplies, and started to make their way back to the road. Hours later, Anders noted the silence. Fenris moved ahead dead-eyed, practically absent from his own body.

“You know,” Anders said when they were resting by the side of the road. “You haven’t made a single scathing comment since we woke up.”

“Neither have you,” Fenris pointed out.

Anders hmmed. “It’s strange. You should try insulting me to help us get back into the swing of things. Say how much you wished you’d left me behind and all that.”

Fenris only stared at him, frowning. “I do not wish that.”

Why did Fenris staring at him and saying that so sincerely feel like more icy needles had sprouted in his gut? He try to brush it off with an awkward laugh. “Well I mean—I wasn’t saying you did, I just mean… as a joke.”

But Fenris didn’t seem to get it so Anders just flicked his eyes away.

“Anyway, let’s—let’s just get to Kirkwall.”

But the silence started to get to him. He felt hollow, as though each of his thoughts were echoing in a deep, empty pit. He needed to talk, and have someone talk back. He went back to the old game.

“So, who we were before,” Anders started. “I think…”

“No,” Fenris snapped.

“Just hear me out.”

“I will not,” Fenris told him. “I already know. I was a slave. Do you think there would be any  _ joy  _ in what I can infer from that information?”

He had stopped, planting himself as he spoke. Anders had stopped with him, and now he could see every painful crease in Fenris’s expression—and there was the guilt again. Anders sighed.

“Alright,” he said.

And yet later at night, when they had made another camp, it came up again.

“You know,” Anders said. “What if… we’ve been fooling ourselves this whole time?”

Fenris looked up from where he had lain down.

“What if we were nothing to each other,” Anders said. “Not friends or even acquaintances—just perfect strangers caught in the same memory spell. And it was only the barest familiarity that drew us to each other.”

Fenris’s face twisted, deep hurt flickering in his eyes.

“What?” Anders said. “You look offended.”

But Fenris just turned over. “Leave me alone, mage.”

“Fine, be a grump,” Anders groused. And then, after a silence. “You know, even if we didn’t know each other in the past, I still….”

But Fenris didn’t react, so Anders decided to give it up and turn over in the opposite direction.

\--

And then, in the middle of the night, someone was shaking him violently.

“I  _ did  _ know you! Mage!  _ Anders! _ ”

Anders blinked, trying to orient himself. Fenris was above him, looking harried.

“You were—I was out here for  _ you _ .”

“Buh?” Anders asked.

“That’s why I was out here.” Fenris’s face was contorted, struggling. “You had been taken—I was out here looking for you and— _ fasta vass _ , it’s slipping.”

“Wait,” Anders asked. “You’re remembering?”

“I had a dream,” Fenris said. “I remembered… but it’s already fading.”

“Tell me what you can.”

There wasn’t much. But Fenris told him all he could recall—had woken him for that purpose, he said, because he could feel it vanishing by the second. What he could recall: an image of Anders healing him before, the shadowy figures of others who seemed to be fighting with the two of them—and an unshakeable determination to find Anders, kill whatever Templars had taken him, and bring him back to Kirkwall.

“I’m…” Anders tried to parse his feelings. “You came to rescue me?”

Fenris gave a quick nod. “I am certain of it. I… since I’ve seen you, there has been this… feeling.”

Anders grinned, “Like you’d been kicked in the stomach the moment you laid eyes on me, right? I remember.”

Fenris scowled. “That is correct.” His expression shifted. “However, there was more. It was as though from the beginning, you were my goal. I was ready to follow you, even before I—when I was—”

But he fell silent, suddenly frowning deeply again.

“Well, I…” Anders tried to figure out how he felt about this. “This is good? I’d have been crushed if I had to find out you were actually some bounty hunter taking me from the Templars for ulterior motives. And—we’re not alone. Neither of us.”

Fenris was staring at him intensely—and it wasn’t a glare, was it? Perhaps he’d misinterpreted a lot of those looks earlier.

“Anyway,” Anders said. “Not that I’d have let you be alone, even if we found out differently. I feel responsible for you now.”

And that, somehow, provoked an amused snort and a smile. Maker, was that smile nice on Fenris’s face. Soft, warm, a little wry.

“You make a lot of yourself,” Fenris said, still smiling, “for someone who got routed by that creature and had to be saved.”

“Oh come on! _ ” _

_ \-- _

After that, Anders felt like he could breathe on the journey.

Fenris was back to snapping at him, but it was… better. Anders wrung more smiles out of Fenris, even a few grudging laughs—always covered up hastily with a cough afterward. And Anders found himself smiling as well—to himself, and at Fenris. Both of them were… happy.

They were even happier when they reached the path, saw Kirkwall looming in the distance, and found no demonic creature standing in their way.

“Did we really get rid of it?” Anders asked. “If so, good riddance.”

“May it pace forever at the bottom of a ravine,” Fenris added.

And then, after they had travelled and made camp again and fallen back asleep, Anders woke. The strange feeling of happiness and accomplishment still buzzed around his head, and suddenly he felt too energetic to sleep.

He got up, moved away from where Fenris was sleeping, and stared at the stars. He’d had no dreams—not ever, not since he’d woken up in that Templar camp weeks ago—and yet some sort of urge swept over him. Steps, rhythmic steps in counts of three, someone holding onto him and twirling with him as the count thrummed in his head.

1—2—3—1—2—3—

It was as strong as any memory. His feet started to move.

\--

Fenris panicked a moment when he woke to find Anders gone. He jumped up and whirled around, looking desperately around in the dark. If he’d gotten mauled by the creature, or taken by Templars right after Fenris had realized he had been on a mission to guard him…

But no, he was simply a bit off in the distance, twirling around—dancing? Fenris squinted. It was not a solo dance. Rather, it looked like half of a partner dance. A waltz. An Orlesian waltz, but one that had spread throughout Thedas. Fenris had even—

The dream from days ago returned, washing over him with a pang.

“I know this dance,” he said.

Anders promptly tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face.

“Fenris!” he shrieked. “Sweet Andraste’s sagging bosom, warn me before you pop up like that!”

Fenris might have smirked, but he was too busy trying to bring back that shadow from before, recall the face of whoever it had been that had held him through these exact steps.

“I’ve done this before,” he said. “I…”

Anders was lifting himself off the ground, slowly. “That’s nice, I suppose. I might appreciate that once my heart starts trying to claw its way out of my chest.”

Fenris scowled. The memory simply would not form. He had to jumpstart it, try and draw as much as he could out of himself before the moment passed.

“Anyway,” Anders was prattling, as he did. “I feel self-conscious now. I’ll just—”

But as he stepped to remove himself, Fenris stepped to approach him. Then, he froze, and Anders froze with him, looking confused.

“I,” he started, and stopped. “You want to…?”

The suggested made Fenris’s stomach flip, and his eye twitched violently for a moment. But the moment was there. The memory seemed ready to surface. Anders had proved himself an ally, not a vile unkind man, perhaps not even as physically repulsive as Fenris’s first impression had told him—maybe even verging on tolerable at times. And then, he was the reason Fenris was here—mysteriously enough—and he had recently made Fenris feel…

_...not alone… _

And that was enough. Fenris felt it was madness, but he nodded, swallowing, and stepped forward.

“Okay,” Anders seemed very, very confused. “To spark your memories, right?”

“To spark my memories,” Fenris agreed.

It was strange how he was certain of how to stand, where to put his hands. Anders fumbled, but only for a moment, and then settled. Fenris was thinking furiously. Yes, the partner he had remembered had been… about Anders’ height. He was sure of it, now, because he slipped into the assumed role so easily.

“Alright,” Fenris said. “Should we count off?”

“I suppose?”

Anders sounded baffled—Fenris felt the same, but in a moment, they were stepping together, spinning, turning, reading each other’s movements easily. It all came so naturally, and it created a strange giddy feeling welling in Fenris’s chest. He liked—he  _ had  _ like dancing before, he was certain.

“Wow,” Anders said as they moved. “We’re good at this, huh?”

Fenris didn’t know how to respond. It all seemed so easy, for a moment. Slow, but sure. He closed his eyes, thinking. They—whoever it was he had dreamed of dancing with—had been flat chested as well, so the feeling of getting close to Anders was remarkably similar. Their bodies fit together like in the memory. Close, comfortable, and—

Fenris screeched to a halt. He meant to detach himself from Anders, but instead he caused him to stumble, and then they were both almost falling to the floor.

“I’ve done this,” Fenris said, his thoughts racing.

Anders was looking at him, some kind of shock just barely visible in the moonlight. Fenris was clutching him, perhaps a little too roughly.

“With you?”

Anders swallowed. “I… well it… maybe? We have? Because we were part of the same… group of friends, and…”

Fenris wondered. He thought about Eliza from the book, and all the feelings described in it that had actually turned out to be love. He thought of all the strange, intense feelings he’d had around Anders from the beginning, and quailed.

“Mage, when you said—” he paused. “When you suggested, before, that we might be involved….”

“What?!” Anders shrieked, pulling away just a little. “I in no way suggested that—”

Fenris scowled. “You suggested we could have been married.”

“No I didn’t!” Anders squeaked, sounding very much like a mouse. “You misinterpreted what I said!”

“You deliberately worded it to be misinterpreted,” Fenris growled, “so that you could mock me for it.”

“I did no such thing!”

“You…” Fenris snapped his jaw shut. He let go, and turned away.

“Fenris?”

Fenris didn’t look back. “Of course,” he said. “It was a mad idea.”

“What?”

Fenris was still reeling. He needed to ground himself. He didn’t know who he was. He was just discovering his past, and how desolate it was, and then—there had been something to cling to. Someone who was there. But the idea was so offensive to Anders, it snapped Fenris right back into reality.

“Talk to me,” Anders was saying behind him. Quiet. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“What human would want to be bound to an elf—and a slave?” Fenris said, coldly.

He heard Anders take a sharp breath. “Excuse me?”

“Forgive me,” Fenris spat, “For daring to think we might have…”

He didn’t finish.

“Wait a minute,” Anders said.

“No,” Fenris said. “Let us forget this.”

“Let’s not,” Anders said, “Not when you sound like I’ve just kicked a puppy in front of you.”

Fenris clenched his fists.

“You really think we might have…” he heard Anders hesitate.

This was a mistake. It was so bloody ridiculous, the whole thing—dancing, suggesting that someone might have  _ loved  _ him. And now Anders would mock him for it, as was his nature. He’d never hear the end of it.

“No,” he snapped back, instead.

He listened, and heard Anders approaching him. “Maker, Fenris. You don’t think I would think less of you because of that?”

“I do think so,” Fenris told him. “You’re clearly—”

But Anders had stood with him, had healed him and tried to help him, and even sworn vengeance upon anyone who would take his freedom. It was harder to think poorly of him, after that.

“I’m clearly what?” Anders asked sharply. “Shallow? Selfish? Too snobby to love someone who’s suffered hardship? Is  _ that  _ what you think of me?”

Fenris didn’t say anything, but only scoffed. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, attempting to spin him around. Fenris snarled, and tried to shove it off, but Anders held tight, and soon they were practically wrestling.

“ _ Look  _ at me you stubborn piece of nugshit!” Anders said.

Fenris did turn around, if only to glare. Anders was snarling at him.

“ _ You’re  _ the one who’s been calling me filthy from the start!” he yelled. “You’re the one who threw rocks at me!”

“You know that’s because I thought you were the creature,” Fenris snapped. “Anyway, there is nothing further for us to discuss. Clearly, we both find each other repulsive.”

“No, we’re not forgetting this,” Anders said snippily. “And I don’t find  _ you  _ repulsive!”

Fenris made a disbelieving noise.

“Maker, you’re—you’re just—”

Anders’ head suddenly jerked a bit closer, and then he shivered. He frowned, as though he were uncertain of why he took the action himself. Whatever the reason, their faces were now close, and he was staring into Anders’ eyes.

“I—”

But Fenris didn’t want to hear another word, so he moved his hands to Anders’ head, pulled him down, and crashed their mouths together. He couldn’t think, then. He could feel Anders’ shock from the contact, felt himself tense up as well. But then, Anders suddenly seemed to melt against him, and they were both moving, and—

The kiss lasted a lot longer than Fenris expected, and ended a lot more tenderly. And then, they were both staring at each other, confused.

“Shit,” Anders said, breathless. “Did you like that too?”

Fenris nodded, a little dazed.

“Were we…” Anders’ forehead scrunched up in bafflement, “In love?”

Fenris licked his lips. “There is a… distinct possibility.”

“Well,” Anders said. “Well this is… I wasn’t expecting it. But you did… come out here to save me?”

“I did,” Fenris said.

“I thought you were making me nauseous.”

“I felt furious every time you so much as looked at me.”

There was a long pause. Neither of them looked away.

“Well,” Anders said. “It’s not a certainty. We need to… test it.”

“Ah. Right.”

Anders’ hair was tousled, strands falling into his face. Fenris lifted his hand, hesitated a moment, and brushed them out of his eyes. Then, uncertainly, he threaded his hand through Anders hair, and watched him swallow. 

Their lips met gently, this time. 

\--

Anders had his first dream in weeks, and it was of dancing.

He was learning, stumbling over his own feet even as he tried to lead. The two of them were off the beat, but they laughed, whirling around happily.

“Karl,” he said. “Karl, let’s--”

And then he noticed. A human man, as tall as him. Anders felt the brush of a beard, saw a flash of pale skin and grey eyes and everything was perfect--but then part of him shrieked.

_ Not Fenris,  _ he thought.  _ It wasn’t Fenris, I’ve never danced with him. We never never… it was a mistake. I’m a fool, a fool-- _

But the details had slipped through his fingers as he woke. He was left frowning, uncertain of why he felt so unsettled. He clutched his head, trying to remember, but then Fenris was stirring, and that distraction was enough.

He forgot.

\--

It would later go to show why one shouldn’t read bad romance novels. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddamn this chapter was a trial. so much sap. so much fluff. Not my element, let me tell you. I'm a bit at a loss when there aren't horrifying monsters popping up. anyway, time to go out and buy a meal because I feel like I deserve it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Hawke and Merrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is late because my girlfriend visited and I was too busy making out to write. I planned to have this done by tuesday morning--but alas, editing this thing was a bitch. I am still not happy with it, honestly, but I can't work on it farther. 
> 
> Not much Anders and Fenris in this one, but I hope you all still enjoy!

“Let me get this straight, Hawke,” Varric said. He wiped his mouth as though to hide it, but Merrill could see the smile in his eyes. “You sent Fenris? _Fenris?”_

It had been a fairly ordinary evening at the Hanged Man, up until the news about Anders. Well—mostly ordinary. Hawke had been in a mopey mood since they’d all come back from their latest quest. Hawke’s version of mopey involved picking fights and smashing heads against the wall while Varric gleefully narrated. There usually ended up being a lot of broken glass and bloodstains and occasionally a few extra dead people. Then the evening would end with a few rounds of cards while Hawke chugged more ale.

This evening had been different. Instead of playing cards, Hawke had gone to the counter to stare into a glass of ale, Varric on her right and Isabela on her left.

“I should kill Donnic,” Hawke muttered darkly.

“Now, now,” Varric chided. “Is murder really the answer to this problem?”

Hawke set down her glass a little too loudly. “It’s been the answer to all the others.”

Varric cackled at this. Merrill could practically see him writing the script in his head.

“What a very Antivan way of settling things,” Isabela said. “What about sharing? I’m sure you could bring man-hands around to it. Maker knows she probably needs a little extra action after years of shriveling up down—”

“Stop,” Hawke grumbled. “Not now.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. She only waited a moment before creeping her fingers over to Hawke’s—and when Hawke didn’t pull away, running those fingers lightly up Hawke’s arm. And what a nice arm--Merrill did appreciate what those sleeveless shirts did for her in the summer, showing off all the defined muscles on her stick-like frame. But Merril’s eyes were fixed on Isabela’s hand, on the circular figures she rubbed into Hawke’s skin.

They looked so good, the two of them. Like grand characters right out of a novel—and Varric belong right with him, as interesting and alive and a part of things as anyone could be. Being around them was like being in the presence of legends to be. They were all so—and she was…

Merrill suddenly could feel every inch of the distance between her and them as though it were crushing water weight on top of her. She opened her mouth to say something, but the conversation was already moving on.

“How about we find a way to take your mind off it?” Isabela purred. “Have a bit of fun?”

Merrill heard Hawke let out a rather harsh breath. All the muscles on her neck tensed. “I’m not--I don’t just want _fun._ Not now,” she said, her grumble sounding mysteriously close to a pout.  “‘M too sad right now.”

Merrill could see just a hint of smirk from the angle she was viewing Isabela’s face. _Not now_ meant _maybe later_ and Isabela was quietly satisfied with that implicit promise.

“Well,” Isabela said silkily. “If it’s _love_ you want we all know Anders would be happy to oblige, what with all the puppy-eyes he’s been giving you....”

Hawke make a disgusted gagging noise and jerked away. Then, she frowned, and stared off into the distance for a moment.

“Oh yeah,” Varric said. “Speaking of Blondie…”

Hawke immediately sat up. “ _Fuck!”_ she hissed. “Fuck! Anders!”

“No,” Isabela said. “Fuck _me._ You don’t even like Anders much.”

“He’s been gone awhile, hasn’t he,” Merrill mused, quietly. “I’ve been wondering....”

“He went missing.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in which the mood got flipped on its head. And then, in a heartbeat they were all aflutter with questions—and answers. Apparently, Anders’ clinic had been found ransacked _three weeks ago_ now (a pronouncement that had Isabela chugging some of Hawke’s ale), and Hawke had spent some time searching for him before anyone had noticed him gone. And then, apparently, when she’d ferreted out rumors of Anders being spotted by members of the mage underground a long ways from Kirkwall (by some incredibly unlikely chance) she had sent Fenris.

Which is what brought them to that moment: Varric and Isabela wheezing with hysterical laughter, Hawke offering them both a glare.

“Fenris!” Isabela had doubled over. “Oh Maker, Hawke, that’s too incredibly good.”

Hawke scowled. “Everyone else was busy.”

Varric had not stopped laughing. “I know you didn’t like the guy but—isn’t plotting to have him murdered a bit much?”

“I bet they’re having such scintillating conversations right now,” Isabella said through her gasps.

“Something like ‘gaah don’t crush my heart you sniveling dog!’ and ‘die, foul abomination!’” Varric chuckled.

Hawke folded her arms, unamused.

“Really, Hawke,” Varric said. “You were with them in the Deep Roads. You remember. I still think it’s a miracle neither of them killed each other.”

“Look,” Hawke said. “I _paid_ Fenris. And I paid him well. He knows how to do a job, regardless of personal feelings.”

“You paid him?” Isabela said. “Damn Hawke, I can’t believe you went so far as to place a hit on Anders.”

Hawke’s scowl deepened. “ _Look_ ,” she repeated. “What else should I have done?”

“Well, hmm,” Isabela’s voice had a sharp edge to it. “You could have told us? You know, since Anders is our friend and all. And we would have been willing to drop our business to make sure he’s not dead.”

“I--” Hawke frowned.

“Yeah, uh,” Varric said. “I would have put the merchant’s guild stuff on hold.”

Hawke looked taken aback. “Well--it doesn’t matter now. The point is, neither of them have returned. They should have been back by now. We need to go find them.”

“Oh no,” Varric said, slumping. “We can wait. They’re definitely dead by now. We can uncover their bodies tomorrow after a nice, long—hey!”

Hawke was already poking him with her staff. “Up.”

Varric whined. Isabela just groaned and leaned against the bar. “We _just_ got back.”

But Hawke was mobilizing them, prodding both Isabela and Varric until they got up, muttering curses under their breath. “No sleeping until we’ve found them.”

“And if they’re dead?”

“Then no sleeping till we’ve dumped their corpses back to the common grave,” Hawke said grimly. “Isabela, you come with me. We’ll check Hightown. Varric, search the docks. Merrill—”

But then, mercifully, someone piped up from the corner.

“Are you all talking about the scary elf and the smelly fellow?” he asked. “I saw them come back in the city just this morning!”

But right when Isabela was about to praise the Maker for letting them all rest, Hawke was herding them all out of the door.

“No sleep,” Hawke repeated. “Until we’ve found both of them. Merrill, check the Darktown clinic.”

Merril’s nose scrunched up, thinking about how bad it smelled down there. “But—”

She didn’t have the space to object, however. Hawke barely gave her a second glance, already running off with Isabela. Merrill watched the three of them dart off and sighed. Reluctantly, she pointed herself in the direction of Darktown, and started walking.

\--

The walk to Darktown was predictably awful. The smell made her want to vomit. The alleys were twisting and so easy to get lost in—not to mention she was pretty certain they formed some kind of treacherous glyphs.

It was also rather lonely. But then—things always were.

The alienage elves avoided her. The people of Darktown did much the same, turning up their noses as she passed by. She knew how to keep her eyes forward and tune out any muttering she heard as she passed.

And then, there was something in the corner of her eye. She turned.

“Isabela!”

Merrill only caught a flash of the figure as it turned the corner, but—that had to be Isabela, didn’t it? There was the white dress, the luscious dark hair spilling out from a blue bandana around her head. Merrill’s heart leapt, and she immediately took a step forward before stopping.

Isabela had… gone in the opposite direction when they’d left the Hanged Man, hadn’t she? And she’d been with Hawke.

“Isabela?” Merrill called. “What are you…?”

But there was no answer from the dark. Merrill frowned, wondering why Isabela had left Hawke to sneak around in some dark Lowtown back alleys. And didn’t they look _so_ dark all of a sudden: looming and sinister in front of her.

Merrill took a moment, and then followed. But Isabela was already at the end of the alley, ready to turn the corner. Limping. Shambling ahead like her legs were—Creators, had she been hurt? Badly?

Merrill hurried to catch up. But it was one alley after another, Isabela always just disappearing when Merrill had turned a new corner. And then, her foot connected with a heavy lump. She stumbled, almost tripped, and then froze when she turned and saw what she had stumbled upon. A dog’s carcass—not unusual in Kirkwall, but it was shriveled and withered, sockets empty. Around it wafted a sickeningly strong aura of entropy magic.

The animal had been _drained._

Merrill took a deep breath, drew her staff, and started a protective enchantment. When she turned the next corner, her step was light and soft, and her eyes were peeled. The next alley led to a dumping ground—the common grave, where they dragged all the victims of illness or the bodies of thieves and murders, fugitives with no one to claim them. And in front of it was—

 _Not_ Isabela.

Merrill recoiled, clutching her staff quietly as her heart raced. But she stayed and watched.

The figure was crouched, turned away so Merrill could see only its back and a single outstretched hand. Merrill could sense the allure of magic, now. Dizzying—like suddenly seeing the dew on a giant, invisible spider web right before stepping into it. The woman—Merrill guessed she was a woman, from the thinness of her waist and the long scraggly hair that fell down her back—was reaching out magically to draw a living creature close.

It worked. There was a ragged cat stepping cautiously close, despite the rankness of the corpse pile. When it got close enough, the woman laid a hand on its head, slowly stroking down as the cat leaned up into her touch.

Merrill had to wince at the sudden yowl that came after that, the shrieking as the cat’s life force was drained. When it was lowered down, the cat’s body had become as shriveled as the dog Merrill had seen earlier.

Yet the woman made a dissatisfied hiss, and Merrill realized it was not enough.

The woman turned to the pile of corpses, and Merril saw her hands extend to form claws. The claws dug into the corpse pile, and Merrill shuddered at the spell that followed, death magic strong enough to make her dizzy, even from the distance she stood.

And then the spell stopped.

It likely would have been a good, reasonable idea to run, at this time. And Merrill thought about it. But his was a threat, someone who could easily turn that entropy magic on a crowd of people at a whim. A Keeper—a Keeper wouldn’t simply run. A Keeper would watch. A Keeper would observe, and learn how to gain the upper hand.

Merrill had magic of her own, anyhow.

The woman had already started to curl up on the ground, likely exhausted from the spellcasting. Merrill cast a heavy sleep spell, pouring her mana into it while she knew the other mage’s resistance would be weak. As she watched, the body went limp underneath the aura. Then, Merrill approached.

A giant, bony frame. Rounded, human ears. Discolored bits of skin showing through the tears in her clothing. And the clothing—Merrill had thought it was simply patchy and dark at first, but on closer look it was drenched in blood. The cloth around its left shoulder was absolutely drenched, and a large tear in it showed some open wounds underneath. Wounds that formed a pattern.

Merrill swallowed, listening for breathing. There was none. Strange—there should be at least some breathing, as long as the woman was alive. The sleeping spell didn’t stop _that._ Still, Merrill crouched down herself to take a closer look.

There was _definitely_ some kind of glyph there, carved with deep, bloody gashes in the woman’s flesh. Blood magic—but not any kind she had learned. Merrill could almost see all of it, almost get close to _reading_ what spell had been cast with this glyph—but the messy, scraggly hair got in the way. She hesitated for a moment, and then reached out to brush the hair away.

She was just an inch away, when the woman twisted, shrieking as though Merrill had dug a knife into her back. The glyph on her shoulder suddenly started to bleed anew. Merrill jumped up immediately, putting her staff forward and raising her free hand in an open palmed gesture.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill said. “I didn’t mean any ha—”

But the figure writhed, and her head _snapped_ right around, and Merrill saw her face. It was dark. It was nigh impossible to make out all the details—and yet what little she saw made Merrill recoil, covering her own mouth in horror.

 _Woman_ or even _human_ might not be the right term for what she was seeing.

Merrill widened her stance, and readied a spell. Her blood raced in her ears, her heart hammered. Her head rang with alarm. The strange new enemy was on her feet, jaw unhinging and revealing rows of needle-like teeth, and Merrill jerked her staff forward, ready to fire.

But the creature--she didn’t attack. Instead, her eyes went dead, and she mumbled--something in a foreign language Merrill could not recognize.

“If you have something to say, then speak,” Merrill said. “Otherwise, begone.”

Only then did those eyes flick over at Merrill, narrowing. And then, it reached out, and Merrill felt a life-draining spell hit her, along with a crackle of darker, sweeter magic. Then, once again, she was seeing Isabela’s face.

Merrill fired the arcane bolt straight for the thing’s heart.

\--

In the end, however, the best she could do was get away--and let the creature escape as well. Merril was bleeding out from the cut she had to make to fuel her magic and her knees buckling under her from the spell cast on her. She stumbled out of Darktown, and barely made it to the Hanged Man.

Varric, Hawke, and Isabela had reconvened, and they stood up immediately. It was nice--at least she was important enough to be concerned over.

“Daisy!” she heard, distantly. She stumbled forward, and felt someone tall catch her--hopefully Isabela…

But then, Merrill noticed the hands were bony and gripping her harshly. _Not Isabela._

“Who did this?” Hawke demanded. “What happened?”

“Easy Hawke,” Isabela said gently. “Lets patch her up before we ask any questions.”

Merrill felt herself moved to a bed, her arm bandaged up and the sweat wiped from her face. There was some mumbling, and

“This would really be easier if Blondie was around…”

“I didn’t find them,” Merrill mumbled. “Sorry…”

“The boys?” Isabela said. “Don’t sweat it, kitten. I’m sure they’re fine.”

\--

Fenris looked around, dizzily. The world all looked transparent and wobbly--and it wasn’t because he was using his markings. Anders was on the floor, where he’d been kicked down earlier, one armored body on top of him. Fenris kicked it off him, and pulled him up by the wrist.

Getting drunk once they had gotten back to Kirkwall had turned out to be a terrible idea.

“Well,” he heard Anders slur. “Those are definitely--you definitely killed all those Templars.”

“Yes,” Fenris said.

“In public. Where people might report on us.”

“How observant of you,” Fenris drawled.

“Prick,” Anders whined, even as his fingers laced with Fenris’s. “So how long until more Templars…?”

The answer to that was a mace to Anders’ back, followed by several arrows that whizzed right above Fenris’s head.

They ran.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for reading! attention is always nice, and much appreciated, if you feel inclined. Comments rock.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Templars dying is a running joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM STILL MANAGING TO POST ON SUNDAY AARRRRRRRRRGH
> 
> Or at least, it's still Sunday here. Not sure what time it is everyone for all my readers. Anyway, Sunday updates resume! In spite of this chapter being a bitch to write, it's here.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

All of Kirkwall smelled bad, but this place—breathing in this place was like inhaling blood and sweat. The statues didn’t help, even as Anders took refuge from the burning sun in one of their shadows. The massive heaps of sculptured bronze in the shape of emaciated bodies strung up upon the cliffs must have cost a fortune each. Anders wanted a word with whoever thought it was a good idea to pour so much time, effort and resources into anything that looked so ugly.

“Fenris,” he said. “I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

Fenris grunted, transfixed by what was ahead of them. There were legions of Templars. Lined up in intimidating formations, around the gates, hovering around some hapless robed people in the corner… it made Anders’ throat shrivel up.

“I told you we should have stopped to ask for directions,” he sniped. “I think we got off course the moment we had to, you know, swim.”

“Do you now?” Fenris drawled. “Perhaps you should go ask one of those nice armored men what the next boat back to the city is?”

Anders laughed a little nervously. “I’ll… pass.”

How long until they were spotted, he wondered? How well known was his face among these Templars? There was no way he was infamous enough that they would all know about him, right? And there was no way they could know about all of the members of the order Fenris had killed just a little while ago, right? Right?

Fenris gave his hand a squeeze. It wasn’t a very gentle squeeze, not with his silly clawlike gauntlets, but it managed to be comforting nonetheless.

“I… feel like I know this place,” Anders muttered. “We should probably try to get information from one of the people in robes.”

“Right.”

They sidled up awkwardly to one of the stalls outside. The robed woman running it nodded to him as he greeted her. He found his eyes focusing on the sun-shaped brand on her forehead.

“Er, hello,” Anders started.

“Please do not touch the merchandise, or I will be beaten,” the robed woman said calmly.

Anders could only blanch, and shoot a look back to Fenris, who mirrored his horror.

“Beaten?” Fenris asked, uncertainly. “By…?”

“The Templars,” she stated. “Five strokes for damaged merchandise, ten for stolen, fifteen if the quota isn’t met.”

Anders quailed. “You seem rather… cheery about this.”

“The Rite prevents me from feeling anything about this.”

Fenris frowned. “The…?”

She explained the Rite of Tranquility. A way to sever one’s magic—and dreams, and feelings, and desires. Anders thought back to those missives he intercepted and his knees suddenly felt weak.

“So this is where all mages go,” he said.

There were Circles, and “the Gallows” was one of them. Cheery name. Anders cracked a joke about it and laughed until Fenris was tugging at his arm and he saw several heads pointed in his direction and realized he had been loud.

“Maker,” Anders said. “Just tell us what boat to get on to get out of here. Please.”

“I am not the Maker,” the woman replied. “But you can exit to the docks over that way.”

He practically ran, barely even bothering to look back at Fenris. He heard armor clanking after him, and jerked away for a moment. When he looked, however, it was just Fenris, blank-faced. He was as damn hard to read as ever, but Anders thought that it might have been concern he was seeing.

“Are you…?” Fenris started to ask, without clarifying.

“I’ll be just peachy,” Anders said, “Once we’re—”

But he didn’t finish, because there was a scream—a muffled scream, coming from behind walls—and it threw Anders off entirely.

“What’s that?”

“Likely another beating,” said another mage nearby, with the same tranquil brand.

Anders laughed again. Fenris seemed… upset? Confused? Anders couldn’t tell.

“You would laugh at this?” he asked.

“We need to get out of here,” Anders said. “Now. Just, walk… slowly… not drawing any attention.”

Fenris followed, only for them to be interrupted.

“Hey, you!”

“Faster,” Anders said. “Much faster.”

“Those two killed some of our men! I saw them yesterday!”

They ended up jumping into the bay, again—barely managing to crawl their way onto a departing ship and hide in some barrels.

Which was all very well and good, until they landed and Anders poked an eye out to see Fenris’s barrel had already been carted away.

\--

It turned out to be incredibly difficult to find one particular barrel in the docks. It was a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack. All these damn barrels looked alike. And there he was, opening every single one of them frantically, until he felt a sword poking his back.

“What’re you looking for?” someone snarled at him.

Anders managed to turn his head over his shoulder, and see a burly man with a missing tooth holding him at sword point. “Um,” Anders said. “An elf? About yea tall, dark skin…”

“We don’t deal in slaves.”

Anders felt his face shrivel up.

“Pirate Smith does that. He’s down on the other side of the docks.”

“That’s disgusting,” Anders spat, only to get a sharp jab. He winced, and took a deep breath. Time to smooth talk his way out of this. “Anyway, well… I am merely looking for my friend, so if you could, perhaps, fuck right off…”

When smooth-talking failed, there was always his staff. He shot a few fools with lightning, and then continued his quest to check every barrel, now while shouting. Once the pirates and slavers around the docks were taken care of, he found Fenris—also deep in battle. Scruffy men—likely thugs of some kind.

As Anders watched, he heard a shout. He turned and he saw an armored figure—a guard?—stepping in.

He also saw Fenris take a particularly hard slice to the side, and he was done watching, opting instead to run right up there as fast as he could.

The armored guard took off her helmet. She was a woman with red hair and a strong jawline, freckles dotting her face. She stood in front of him and looked like she was about to speak.

“You two…” she started.

Anders shoved right past her, and reached for Fenris.

“Here, let me heal that.”

“It’s no big concern,” Fenris told him.

“It is a big concern,” Anders said, his hands already lighting up with healing magic. “Imagine if you had died out here, while I wasn’t around!”

“As opposed to dying where you could see it.”

“That’s right,” Anders said. “No dying unless I’m there to savor every moment.”

Fenris snorted, and even in the dark Anders could see amusement on his face. “How considerate of you.”

Anders felt relief wash over him, and in a sudden impulse leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Fenris jumped for a second, and then grabbed him. Anders felt himself yanked down, and their lips were locked messily.

The strangled shriek behind Anders interrupted him. He pulled away pulled away, and saw the guardswoman staring with the most comical look of horror.

“Well, what’s your problem?” Fenris snapped.

“Yeah,” Anders said. “What are you looking at?”

The woman stammered. “You two… you two are…?”

Anders pulled Fenris closer out of pure spite. “You have some kind of problem with us?”

“I was just—” The woman blinked, and then turned away. “This can’t be real.”

Anders raised his eyebrows, but the woman was already retreating, muttering something about “Blighted Fade horrors” under her breath, and “bloody twenty hour shifts, I should have  _ never…” _

“That was odd,” Fenris said.

Anders scoffed.

Something about the whole interaction felt off, but Anders didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, the two of them continued on their way through Kirkwall.

\--

The red-haired guard was not to be the last strange interaction they would have, and it wasn’t even the last time he and Fenris would get separated—Maker, the bloody elf was impossible to keep track of in this city!

He ended up losing Fenris in the alienage. One moment everything was fine, the two of them passing a bunch of shabby bakeries, and then suddenly Anders was on his own, nervously looking around. Which was really no fun at all—especially when every flitting shadow in the corner of his eye made his mind go back to a certain seemingly-undead thing that was determined to follow the two of them anywhere.

He gulped, and hurried to retrace his steps, when something else in the corner of his eye made him turn.

There was an elven girl crouched near the ground. She was pale and shaky, and she seemed transfixed on the corpse of some animal that had been swept to the side of the street.

“Another one…” she mumbled.

“Another what?” Anders asked.

“Another drain life spell,” she said, not looking back at him. “I was just on my way back to my house, but there are already other corpses drained like this… I need to tell—”

She trailed off, and then turned around. The moment she saw him, she gasped. “Oh! Anders!”

Anders immediately jumped up. “Yes! Anders, that’s me.”

“Hawke has been looking for you!” Merrill said. “She’s furious!”

Anders frowned. “Hawke…?”

“Yes, she was poking us with sticks to get us out looking for the two of—oh yes!” Her face suddenly contorted with worry. “And Fenris?”

“Just lost him,” Anders said, heart warm all of a sudden. This was someone who knew him, knew them both—a friend? “But he was just—”

There was a loud roar, and a crash in the distance.

“Alright, I think I found him,” Anders said.

He ran, and the elven lady followed. They ended up finding Fenris standing over yet another armored body.

“Another Templar?” Anders asked. “Really?”

Fenris gave a quick glance from Anders to his new companion, and scowled. “He started it.”

“We’re going to bring the entire order down on us at this rate,” Anders said. “All because you can’t keep your sword in its sheath for five minutes!”

“I?” Fenris said. “As though I’m the one these armored cretin are after.”

“Exactly!” Anders threw up his hands. “They’re not after you, so how are you managing to pick fights with more of them than I do? Anyway, can’t you at least not do it in public?”

Fenris folded his arms.

“You’re going to draw all sorts of attention!” Anders said. “There’s no way the locals here won’t report—wait, what are you doing?”

There was already two people—an elf and a human—at the murdered Templar’s feet, dragging the body away. They paid Anders little mind.

“Oh!” the elven lady that had joined them said. “It’s Sweenie and Lovit from the bakery. Hello!”

The human grunted, and kept pulling while the elf stopped to check the bodies’ pockets. “Hello,” he said gruffly. “Bakery’s been low on meat.”

It took Anders a moment to understand the implications of this. He shared a look of disgust with Fenris when he had.

“Okay… then?” Anders said.

Without another word, the two of them dragged the body off towards the back entrance of a bakery.

“What’s  _ wrong  _ with this city?!” Anders burst out.

Fenris shrugged. “He called me a knife-ear, anyway.”

“I’m just glad I never had any of their meat pies,” their new companion said. “That can’t be healthy.”

\--

Her name turned out to be Merrill—a fact that somehow came out without either. She seemed ready to keel over at any moment. She explained this away with blood loss—a result of casting a spell in some fight last night, and yes she should be resting at the Hanged Man where Hawke and the others had left her, but she had important work to be doing, and she could rest just as well at home, and anyway—

“Oh but I’m rambling,” she said. “We need to get you both to Hawke.”

“Right,” Anders said. “Lead the way. Also, we should tell you…”

But before he could mention the memory loss, or the fact that they were being stalked by some demonic creature, she was walking ahead of them, chatting on even more.

“They’re not at the Hanged Man, now, but they will be eventually as usual,” Merrill said. “They actually went off looking for the two of you again—and won’t they be happy to know you’re both safe?”

“They?” Fenris asked. “Our… friends?”

“Yes—well, hm,” Merrill stopped to think about this a moment. “More or less? Anyway, I hope they don’t run into any trouble like I did last night. That was quite something. I’m still trying to figure out… oh, but I suppose you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. Silly me!”

Anders took the brief pause to interrupt again. “You know, there are a few things we should mention…”

“I’m sure the others will be excited to hear everything that happened,” Merrill said. “Especially Varric and Isabela. They always love to hear tales. And… oh, wait.”

She stopped to run over to some gutter, and poke a lump in it with her staff. As she rolled it over, Anders could see it was a shriveled, drained corpse.

“What’s the matter?” Anders heard Fenris ask.

“I passed here not too long ago,” she said. “This wasn’t here a few hours ago. That means…”

She turned, sharply. “Let’s get out of here. To the Hanged Man.”

“That place,” Anders said. “Right.”

The story about losing their memories could wait until they had congregated with everyone else, he supposed.

“Shouldn’t be long,” Merrill said cheerily, “In fact, I think it’s right over…”

Anders felt Fenris draw close, and their hands linked again.

\--

Several hours later, when the sun was setting, they finally made it to a familiar sign. Merrill burst in eagerly.

“Hawke?” she said. “Varric? I found them!”

For some reason, Anders’ eyes were immediately drawn to a woman sitting at the bar, another woman and a dwarf at her either side. She turned slightly to eye them, tipping a glass back as she drank…

And choked. Spluttered. The other two stared, eyebrows raised. The other woman, with darker skin and thicker hair, took a single moment before waggling her eyebrows and taking a sip.

“What’s the matter?” Merrill asked, she moved her eyes from Anders and Fenris to the others. “Why are you all so…? Oh.”

Her eyes rested briefly on where Anders and Fenris’s hands were linked, and then up to their faces.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh… well, then.”

Fenris clenched his hand more tightly—a bit painfully, considering the gauntlets. Anders shuffled uncertainly closer to him, feeling a bit self-conscious all of a sudden. Fenris was familiar though, comforting to hold on to in the face of all this sudden anxiety.  

The dwarf suddenly shot them both a shit-eating grin, and patted the stool next to him.

“Sit,” he said. “You’re gonna have to tell us  _ everything.” _

_ \-- _

Later, much later, when they’d told all they could, from the memory loss to the strange creature to the realization they had been in involved before, Varric—that was the dwarf’s name—practically crowed.

“Involved?” he said. “Blondie, Broody—you have no idea!”

Anders felt suddenly worried. “We weren’t…?”

It was strange how his heart suddenly sank. He hadn’t realized how much he’d clung to this, to having someone. But no, he was foolish to even think that. He could see now what his life was. Desolation, hunger, loneliness--a life on the run. 

He felt Fenris stiffen beside him, and didn’t want to meet his eyes.

“You two,” Varric leaned forward, grinning, “were so sickeningly,  _ madly  _ in love—the way you put it simply doesn’t do it justice!”

Hawke choked, again. This time, it was on food, so she actually flailed as she tried to get it out of her throat, shaking her head back and forth. Varric waved dismissively at her.

“I think we should… enlighten them,” Isabela smoothly. “Tell them a bit about their passionate romance.”

Hawke actually fell to the floor.

“Come on, honey,” Isabela said, pulling Hawke up. “Let’s let Varric handle it.”

Merrill frowned. “But--”

Isabela put a hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “Come on, kitten,” she purred. “Help me revive Hawke here, why don’t you?”

And then before Merrill could say anything else, Isabela was pulling both her and Hawke out of the room, Hawke making a protesting noise all the way until the doors closed behind them. Anders found himself looking up, heart suddenly beating with anticipation.

“You can tell us about our pasts?” Fenris asked.

Fenris was glancing at him, and Anders saw a gleam of hope in his eyes. They ended up sharing a smile, and Anders gave his clawed, gauntleted hand a squeeze.

“That’s right,” Varric said, rubbing his hands together in a gesture that almost looked greedy. “Now sit back. I’m going to tell you the most touching love story you’ve heard in your lives—and it’s all about your own lovely selves.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lying to companions gets +10 Rivalry from Hawke.
> 
> Anyway, special thanks to Rhube, MajorMistakes, and "I_hate_mages_No_you_don't" for commenting consistently! Oh, and an anon called Pen, for also commenting consistently, and also writing a big comment yesterday that made my day. You're all great! Additional special thanks to my girlfriend, who is the best.
> 
> Comments are great! kudos are also great! please leave either of those, if you feel so inclined. It makes writing much easier.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lies, slander, and bigotry. Also, apologies to Aveline. She's having a confusing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I stayed up until 3:30am writing this and it was a giant mess. Any coherence is purely because of my wonderful girlfriend, whom I love, editing this.
> 
> Oh. Also. There will proooobably be more than thirteen chapters to this, because I have veered just slightly off the outline. Oops.

“So,” Fenris said. “Dragons.”

“Dragons,” Varric repeated, eyes twinkling. “Dragon _l_ _ings,_ to be more exact. Anyway, Fenris, you had scaled about halfway up the tower, when they…”

Varric Tethras, their unfortunately forgotten friend and prominent novelist of Kirkwall—had a magnetism about him. His words pulled Fenris inexorably in, each wild occurrence after another drawing him further and further in until Fenris was ready to fall off his chair from leaning forward so much.

“Oh, sure,” Varric was saying. “Right under the Knight-Commander’s nose! And then, beneath the moonlight, as the oncoming storm brewed and burbled by the sea, shortly before the pirates would arrive….”

“It’s true,” said Isabela. “I was the pirates.”

They had both lived astounding lives full of adventure, it seemed—in spite of Fenris having lost his memory once before and only having about half his life experience. That was difficult enough to believe, but it was no more astounding than any of the other things Varric was saying.

“...and then they made you their chief.”

And still later...

“...and though the sleeping draught had been strong indeed--so strong that Anders might never have woken up--you managed to bring him back to the waking world through true love’s kiss, or maybe by activating your lyrium markings. One of the two. Both, probably.”

He listened, and listened and when he looked up at the clock five hours had gone by, and Anders was folding his arms.

“A Grey Warden?” Anders said. “A darkspawn-fighting warrior trailing through rivers of blood and blight underground—me? No. You’re having me on.”

Varric chuckled. “Afraid not, Blondie.”

“There is no way,” Anders protested, scrunching his nose. “That sounds so… messy. And icky.”

“It was a way out of the Circle, as you told it,” Varric said. “So, anyway, the Grey Wardens…”

Fenris lost track of time again, until all the patrons had gone and it was just the three of them, with Hawke and Isabela in the other room. Merrill had checked out pretty quickly. She’d sat slumped on one of the sofas, looking dejected and seemingly unaware of the story Varric was narrating until she’d fallen asleep.

Suddenly, the door burst open and the sound of heavy, armored footsteps clanked their way in. Fenris saw Anders flinch, and whirl around.

It was the red-headed guard woman from before, dark circles under her eyes.

“Maker,” she said, sagging under her armor. “Hawke, I had the strangest—”

Her eyes landed on the two of them, and her mouth dropped.

“Oh hey!” Varric said, jumping up. “Aveline.”

She stared for another split second, and then started bellowing. “Hawke!  _Hawke!”_

In a second, Hawke was bursting from the door. The moment she locked eyes with the new arrival, she hurriedly started adjusting her clothing and straightening her hair. “Aveline?!”

“What,” Aveline, as the red-headed woman asked, gesturing sharply at Fenris and Anders, sitting close. " _What.”_

“ _What_ is your problem?!” Anders asked, folding his arms.

Aveline didn’t even look at him. “Hawke,” she said again.

“They—” Hawke faltered.

“Our lovebirds came back,” Isabela said, sidling up behind Hawke. “Isn’t that right?”

“Lovebirds?” Aveline asked sharply. She gave Fenris a long hard look, and then her eyes trailed down to where his hands were still linked with Anders’ and her face shriveled up. “ _Lovebirds?”_

“Yes, our resident broody elf and snippy healer,” Varric said. “Come on Aveline, it’s only been a few weeks.”

Fenris frowned, wondering why this woman was reacting so strangely. Her eyebrows were slowly climbing up to her hairline. She looked at him, again perplexed, before turning her gaze away, and back to Hawke.

“Uh,” Hawke said.

“This is not—they’re holding hands,” Aveline said.

The repulsion in her tone was a slap across the face. “What?” Fenris asked.

He looked around—the woman was a friend of theirs, wasn’t she? Surely the others would--yes, Varric seemed offended, and Isabela was raising her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong with a little hand-holding?” Isabela asked silkily. “They’re both big boys, they can do what they like. Right, Hawke?”

“Isabela,” Hawke growled, but Fenris already found himself standing.

“Yes,” he asked. “What _is_ wrong with it?”

Aveline just stared at him. “Is that a trick question?” she asked. “He’s a mage!”

Fenris bristled, and heard a sharp breath from where Anders was sitting. “Excuse me?”

In the corner of his eye, he could see Varric slap a hand over his mouth.

“Is there… something wrong being a mage?” Anders asked weakly from where he was still sitting.

“Yes.” Fenris folded his arms. “Is there something wrong with being a mage?”

The room went dead silent. Fenris refused to look away from Aveline’s gaze, but he heard a squeaky “oh dear” from Merrill in the corner.

“Um,” he heard Hawke say.

“You’re asking me?” Aveline sounded incredulous. “Me?!”

“That’s right,” Fenris asked.

“Magisters,” Aveline said, sounding out every syllable as though for a child. “Blood mage tyrants running around enslaving and torturing elves in Tevinter—ringing any bells?”

“And what does that have to do with us?” Fenris asked.

There was a strange coughing sound from Varric, but when Fenris flicked his eyes at him, Fenris couldn’t read his expression. On the couch, Merrill seemed to be covering her head in her hands. Isabela had a giant smirk on her face--it seemed that she usually did.

“Fenris,” Anders said, standing up just to nervously tug at Fenris’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t make a big deal out of it.”

There was a collection of awkward, surprised noises from around the room, including from Aveline. Suddenly all eyes were on Anders, who gave a nervous laugh.

“I mean,” Anders said, sounding a bit squeaky. “I don’t want to cause any conflict here. No need to get into any nasty arguments, right?”

Merrill’s eyes were bugging out. She jumped up, nervously, and stammered. “This is all very—I’m very… I’m going to—get something. Do something. Oh! Go home, yes. Time to go back to my little house…”

She practically bolted out of the Hanged Man.

“You’ve weirded her out,” Aveline muttered.

“Us?” Fenris asked. “ _Us?_ You’re the one spewing bigotry!”

“Bigotry?!” Aveline repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, that’s right!” Isabela said lightly. “You bigot!”

“All this blatant anti-mage rhetoric!” Varric exclaimed. “This slanderous libel!”

Aveline scowled. “You all—”

“Heinous!” Isabela said. “Absolutely—”

As they shouted at each other, Fenris looked to Anders, scrunching uncomfortably into himself. Then, there was a boom, and a reverberating shock throughout the room, enough to shake the floor underneath them. Everyone wobbled for a moment, until Fenris saw the source of the noise: Hawke, slamming her fist into the wall. Magic. Force magic had coursed right through Hawke’s fist, and left the wall dented, angry cracks running down it.

“ _Enough_ !” Hawke boomed. “This bullshit has gone on long enough. Anders, Fenris—sit back down. Aveline—go join them. Varric—you owe everyone an explanation. An _honest_ explanation. Isabela—stop trying to distract me by putting your hands up my shirt. It’s not going to work. This time.”

“Isn’t it?” Isabela asked.

Everyone slowly, grumblingly, sat down around a table, twiddling their thumbs while Hawke remained standing.

“Alright,” Hawke said. “Now—”

But before she could finish, there was another slam as the door flew open.

“We need to bar the doors!” Merrill shrieked. “Quick! _Quick!”_

She bolted the door and shoved a chair in front of it. The group collectively stared, bemused, until the door banged again, so hard it nearly broke, prompting everyone to action.

They fell into formation so easily, like muscle memory. Fenris took point with Aveline, who hefted her shield and gripped her sword. Fenris suddenly realized he had left his… by the door…

“What is it?” Hawke said.

“Well—” the door banged again, as Merrill tried to talk over it, “you see—”

Fenris stepped forward, and looked out the window. The figure of a young, red-haired elven woman was knocking harshly on the door. And then, her head turned loosely, and stared directly at him.

He recoiled.

“It’s back,” he said. “Anders!”

Anders caught his eye, and paled. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the banging stopped.

“Merrill,” Hawke said. “Explain.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, her back still against the door. “Well, you see, it all started last night when I was walking about looking for Anders. There was this dog carcass that looked all shriveled up, but in that particular entropy magic way, and then—”

A window shattered, and the room devolved into chaos.

\--

“Well,” Varric said. “Overall I think we handled that very well.”

Fenris crouched, feelings Anders’ reassuring touch at his back. It was dark in the cellar, and muffled crashes and battle cries could still be heard above.

“Oh, did we now?” Anders asked. “Funny, I thought I saw the entire upper floor completely trashed and half our companions knocked unconscious as we escaped to the basement.”

The thing had immediately gone for the lights. And then, in the dark, it had let them all scramble, picking them off by hearing alone.

And when any of them managed to find it in the darkness, illuminated briefly by magelight...

 _“Donnic?”_ Aveline had gasped, right before her head had been bashed against a wall. “Aveline?” Hawke had cried, before being slammed into the floor. “You evil bitch!” Isabela had shouted, and been thrown across the room.

Fenris had a feeling that he would like Isabela. Or, had liked. Would grow to like again.

“No, no,” Varric told them, interrupting Fenris’s thoughts. “This is the ideal set up. That… thing, is up there. Hawke is up there. And you two, the targets, are down here, where it can’t find you. Foolproof set-up, I tell you.”

There was a loud crash, and then sudden silence.

“Gonna have to pay a fortune in repairs, though…” Varric muttered.

“Perhaps we should prepare ourselves and go up,” Anders said.

“Anders is right,” Fenris said. “We have to—”

“Wait, wait,” Varric interrupted. “You’re gonna have to say that again.”

Fenris blinked, confused. “I said, Anders is—”

Varric made a noise through his teeth. “Well, that’s gonna take some getting used to,” he muttered.

Fenris frowned. “What?”

Varric was saved from explaining by the cellar door--bolted from the inside as it was--being torn open. Fenris jumped, his markings bright.

“Hawke?” Varric asked. “Tell me that’s you.”

No answer, save for some distinctly un-Hawke-like ragged breaths.

He gripped his blade. It would be hard to swing it, in such small quarters as these. But he had his markings. Before, it had been hard to use them on the creature, because the creature always had room to dodge, but if it came down here to get him, now…

But it didn’t step down to engage him. Suddenly, Fenris smelled smoke, and heard a sickening crackle. Before it seemed realistically possible, the entire cellar was on fire.

They didn’t even think before running. The primal fear of fire was too much. Fenris swung, but his blade connected only with air, leaving him unbalanced and open to a stunning blow to the head. He didn’t even see the knife--just felt the sharp pain in his side, and the sickly feeling of poison, likely the same poison Anders had earlier spent so much time drawing from his body. He felt his markings flare painfully, and yet he could not phase through the sudden grip that held him. Claws dug into the back of his neck, and slammed his head repeatedly into a wall.

He felt himself go limp, head spinning. He could hear Anders’ panicked voice. In the firelight, he could see the horror flickering in his face as he aimed his staff. Fenris saw a flash of magic aimed in his direction, but then Anders was gone and Fenris was being hauled away faster that he thought the creature had been capable of moving. The sounds of screams and crashes, of breaking and magic faded away as he slipped into blackness.

\--

It must not have been too much later when he regained consciousness. They were still in the city. The creature’s grip had slackened somewhat, assuming him helpless. In a sudden burst of manic strength, he bit down hard and twisted away, snarling.

But it was no use. The poison was still in him, his head still pounding from the blow he’d taken earlier. He was helpless, barely managing to scramble even a few feet away from it--and what good would that do him, in a city with streets so twisted and confusing, when this predator always seemed to know where he was? It reached out, looking more irritated than anything.

Then, sudden light from behind it. Magelight, illuminating six figures behind it. The creature turned to face them, and Fenris gasped in relief, collapsing against the wall.

“Ugh.” It was Hawke’s voice, sounding like she’d recently woken to a massive hangover. “That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I want its head mounted on my wall.”

“Next to Knight Commander Meredith and Knight Captain Cullen?” That was Varric.

“Right next to them,” Hawke replied. “With Meredith in the middle.”

“Shut up, both of you! Let him go—tell that _thing_ to let him go!”

Fenris looked up into the light. He knew that blubbering, hysterical voice. “Anders?” he said.

“I am not a thing,” the thing hissed.

“It _talks.”_ Aveline. That was Aveline.

“I am not a thing.” Cold. Harsh. Fenris literally felt prickles of icy magic seep into his skin. “I am not an _it.”_

“Well, whatever you are,” Varric piped up. “You’re outnumbered. We’re all here, good as new—thanks, Anders—and there are six of us, and one of you. Now, I don’t know what they paid you to bring Broody back, but you have to ask yourself: is it worth your life?”

Fenris felt the same icy energy. “Is the elf worth _yours?”_ the thing asked.

The group shuffled.

“Oh stop trying to reason with it!” Anders nearly shrieked. “Kill it. It’s demonic! Any second now, it’s going to use it powers to mess with our heads and make us more amenable to agreeing with it.”

And then, the aura—that sudden transformation of the hideous creature into _someone._ Fenris saw it, and he heard sharp intakes of breath—a particularly loud one from Hawke.

“Nice trick,” Hawke said. “Too bad I won’t fall for it, since Aveline is right next to me.”

“What?” said Aveline.

“This is not a trick.” The thing’s voice became mellifluous. “Merely—a way for you to look at us differently, while we discuss things.”

Anders snarled. “We won’t listen to anything you have to say!”

“You spoke of pay, dwarf,” it said. “If you all leave now, leave us to accomplish our task, then we can report to our master, and you will all receive compensation.”

“Your master?” Merrill asked.

“Master?” Fenris said, finding his voice. “Your master in what sense?”

It didn’t reply. He could see nothing of it. No expression, no posture—nothing save a white outline from the light the others were shining.

“I see no master here,” Fenris spat. “You have simply to walk away, and no one will stop you. You are a fool to not do otherwise.”

“Broody’s right!” Varric said. “No need for any more unnecessary nighttime exercise. Just, pick up and go. I can even compensate _you_ for it. Just, step away and let us get our grumpy elf back.”

No answer.

“A fool,” Fenris snarled. “A trained attack dog.”

And then, only then, did the thing’s aura melt away and its eyes turn on him. And they burned, enflamed with magic and lighting up the creature’s face so Fenris could see every wound, ever scar, ever bared tooth, every angry crease.

“How little you know,” it said, voice somehow still managing it songlike tone, until it dropped, hissing. “And how little room you have to talk.”

And then, it advanced on the group.

“This man,” it hissed, “will turn on you, when the time is right. He has done it before, and he will do it again.”

Fenris felt slapped across the face. He opened his mouth to say it was a lie—but then, he didn’t know that, did he?

“You believe you are the first that have taken him in?” it demanded. “The first to offer him food, healing, and a shelter? You are not. There were others. And when the time came, he cut them down.”

Fenris was going to open his mouth to protest. Instead, he heard Anders’ objection.

“No,” Anders said. “That’s a lie. He wouldn’t. He hasn’t….”

“I already know,” Hawke said.

Fenris jolted. His vision was clearing now, just a little. He could see Hawke’s face, grimly set. And everyone else’s—staring at Hawke, and then at him in horror.

“I…?” he asked, suddenly hoarse. “So then--I did?”

Hawke wouldn’t meet his eye.

“Why would you go to the trouble for a murderer, a betrayer, a child-killer?” the thing was asking. “Why would you risk yourselves, when this is the gratitude he offers?”

“Child-killer?” Fenris repeated slowly.

He stared at the floor. His hands were shaking. His knees wobbled. He was ready to collapse.

“Perhaps I should regale you with the tale,” it said. “The Fog Warriors of Seheron. And how they..”

But that was all Fenris heard before his vision went red. He still had no weapon, no powers, but he launched himself at the creature, ready to tear a hole right through its chest.

The creature lashed back out at him, cutting his face cheekbone to nose-bridge. That was enough to break the spell of calm and begin the battle. Light flashed and magic flew, and Fenris fell dizzily to his knees.  He looked at his hands, checking for blood. He head swam emptily, and he closed his eyes, feeling strangely like an animal.

He was crumbling. His insides shook, as though the creature’s words has poisoned him. And in the midst of that, he needed something—needed someone—and there was only one name he really knew to call.

“Anders...”

For a long moment, there were only the sounds of battle, and the growing emptiness as he realized no one would answer. He sank, further and further to the ground, shriveling up as he wondered who would stoop to help a man who had turned on his benefactors. And he _had_ turned. That ugly truth rang through him like holy judgement.

And then, miraculously, a pair of hands caught him.

“Oh, Maker.” Anders was in tears. He immediately stroked through Fenris’s hair almost roughly in his desperation. “Fenris. _Fenris._ I was so worried.”

Fenris choked.

“It’s alright,” Anders said. “It’s alright, I’ll heal you…”

Fenris buried his head in Ander’s chest. He breathed deeply, clung to him like a drowning man to the last piece of driftwood as that ugly truth reverberated through him again and again.

\--

Afterward, the group unanimously agreed that Fenris's drinks were on them for the rest of the week.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter there will be cats. Probably. If I stick to the plan.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, kudo'd, or bookmarked! Hope you all enjoyed this one, and have a good evening.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are cats, as promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, and update that doesn't occur at ass o'clock AM! Praise me.

“Alright,” Hawke started, slamming her palm on the table to get everyone’s attention. “I have a few questions. The first being: what the  _ fuck?” _

Anders cast a glance around. They were all at what seemed to be the designated Wicked Grace table, an assortment of bloodied lips and bruised faces set to a background of cracked walls and broken chairs. They had all turned to stare at him as though waiting for answers. But Maker, he was tired.

“I second this question,” Aveline said. “I need some explanations.”

Anders rubbed at his temples. “Which… part should I explain, specifically?”

“That thing,” Hawke said. “Why couldn’t I  _ kill  _ it?”

“I think that’s a good place to start,” Varric said. “Anything that Hawke can’t kill has got to have quite the story behind it.”

“And we do so love stories,” Isabela piped in, winking at Varric. “Don’t we now?”

Varric winked back, folded his hands, and waited. “We’re all ears, Blondie.”

Anders twitched, and shot a glance away from the table, to where Fenris had passed out on some cushions. He turned back, and threw up his hands.

“Honestly?” he said. “I have no idea.”

“No idea?” Hawke narrowed her eyes at him.  “That thing’s been after you two for… how long? A week? And you don’t even know what it is?”

Anders bristled, but didn’t say anything.

“Pathetic,” Hawke scoffed.

“Excuse me?” Anders shot back, hotly. “Why don’t  _ you  _ try—”

“Anyway,” Isabela said, getting up and abruptly cutting off any arguments that could happen. “Could anyone else use a drink? Because I’m getting one.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and soon they are all tiredly nursing drinks, rubbing their eyes. Anders took the moment to rest his head on the table, looking up to find Merrill’s sidled up to him.

“We should share notes.” It’s the first thing Merrill’s said all evening. When Anders looks to her, her eyes are bright, a bit intense looking. “We need to figure out everything we If you can recall every single spell you’ve seen her use, also everything you’ve seen her recover from—oh, perhaps we can write it down…”

But before he could hear another word, Anders found himself closing his eyes and drifting away.

\--

He dreamt, again.

In his dream, he tried to see, but there was nothing. Tried to speak, but there was nothing. Tried to move, but there was  _ nothing _ . He was bodiless. He was soundless. He was lighter than the particles of air.

There was nothing, but then—there was struggle. Writhing, as much as he could. Reaching. Clawing in what limited way he could.

And then, for flashes of time, he was something again.

For a moment, he was in the dark, cowering up against a wall, reaching out to feel just the slightest tickle of whiskers against his fingers. And then, he was running—running mad, running wild, running until his lungs were on fire and he was ready to collapse, the clanking of armor behind him.

And then, the anger.

It came upon him suddenly, sweeping away all the other images as though he were sweeping dishes off the table. It transformed him into a manifestation of energy, a bolt of anger, of purpose.  And then, there was a voice.

“…must be free…”

The images bled together, and spun around, and then vanished right as Anders woke up.

\--

Fenris was quiet, the next morning when Anders got up. It made Anders nervous. Fenris wasn’t a chatty person in general, but this particular silence seemed so much worse than his general broodiness. Perhaps it wasn’t the silence so much as the way Fenris’s eyes suddenly refused to meet his gaze, or the way his back slumped, or the way he seemed to subtly draw away from Anders when Anders bid him good morning

Perhaps it wasn’t any of that, but just that for some reason Anders really wanted someone to fill up the silence, right now.

“Anders,” Fenris said back to his greeting.

“Do you want to talk?” Anders asked.

Fenris shook his head.

But they were in Varric’s suite, and soon everyone—save Aveline and Hawke, who had both left to their more comfortable homes—was getting up, groaning. Isabela was the first to approach Fenris in the silence, ruffling his hair and making his shoulders shoot up to his ears.

“Hey there,” she said. “Up bright and early, huh?”

That set the tone. Varric gave Fenris a good natured slap on the arm, and Merrill gave him a bright smile and a chipper greeting. It warmed Anders’s heart to see it all. The group seemed… unusual to say the least. It might be too much, right now, for anyone to outright say something like “We’re still your friends even if you apparently murdered people in the past.” Still, this would hopefully get the message across.

Anders’s heart felt less warm, as he saw Fenris stiffen at each new greeting.

The mood was ruined considerably when they all went downstairs and got a look at all the wreckage.

“Oh dear,” Merrill said. “I didn’t know we had wrecked the place quit so badly.”

“Well, it wasn’t ‘us’ this time, kitten,” Isabela said.

It was… strange, to eat breakfast with these friends of his he had just met. Strange and uncomfortable. He found himself shifting to sit closer to Fenris, even if he was a bit unresponsive this morning.

“So, Blondie. Broody,” Varric said. “We need to figure out what to do with you two before Gorgeous catches up with you again.”

Anders frowned, thinking for a moment. And then, he felt his face sour. “’Gorgeous’?” he asked. “Really Varric, you gave it a name?”

“Hey!” Varric said.

The discussion that followed was fairly practical. They discussed how their pursuer seemed to be able to find Fenris no matter where he was, when the creature might attack again, and where Fenris would stay in the meantime.

“I…” Fenris said, speaking up. “Where did we live, before?”

“Oh,” this prompted a pause from Varric. “You… two…”

“Were living it up in Hightown!” Isabela offered. “In a mansion, no less. You both moved in over two years ago.”

“Um,” Merrill seemed to hesitate. “What Isabela said.”

“A mansion?” Anders asked. “In Hightown? No way. You’re definitely trying to pull one over on us.”

Varric flashed a grin. “We’ll just have to show you, then.”

The trip up to Hightown was full of detours as Varric stopped to point out all of Kirkwall’s charming landmarks. When they arrived, though, Anders gaped.

“ _ This  _ place?” Fenris asked, eyes going wide. “It’s—enormous! I cannot believe…”

But it became a lot more believable once they were inside, alone. Cobwebs. Heavy air. Dingy, dirty curtains that made Anders wheeze when he tried to open them. Bare floors, knocked over shelves, and wallpaper that was peeling off. Plus, an extra surprise in a few of the rooms.

“Those are corpses,” Fenris said. “Actual… corpses.”

Anders folded his arms. “Think they’re all messing with us?”

“I…” Fenris scrunched his face up. “No. This place feels… familiar.”

Anders looked around, and sighed. “We weren’t happy people, were we?” he asked.

Fenris didn’t respond. Anders just looked around, inhaling the filthy air of the place, adjusting the mental picture of the Fenris and Anders that used to exist. For a moment, when Varric had been talking last night, he had seen bright, snarking adventurers with a spring in their step. Now he suddenly he was seeing something different, something perhaps a bit more fitting to two exhausted runaways.

“Perhaps we should find a way to fortify this place,” Fenris said. “Bar the windows. Use some enchantments to ward off our foe.”

Anders nodded. “Right,” he said. “The windows—we can use some of those broken bookshelves.”

There wasn’t any time to ruminate, and maybe that was a good thing.

\--

Somehow, despite the Hanged Man being an absolute wreck, Isabela and Varric were still playing cards there when Anders and Fenris wandered over. Both of them were tired from barring up windows, so they collapsed immediately. Eventually, though, Fenris left wordlessly to go upstairs, presumably to brood with less people around.

“Let’s leave him to it,” Isabela said. “Broody warriors will be broody warriors, after all, right?”

She sat him down at the Wicked Grace table, and Varric slid a glass in his direction.

“Here Blondie. Looks like you could use it.”

Anders felt something coiling in his stomach as he looked into the drink, but he took a swig anyway. It was only afterward that he noticed how closely the two were watching him, and how Isabela’s eyes gleamed like she had just  _ won. _

“Well you two seem excited,” Anders said, frowning.

Isabela grinned, and Anders felt a little terrified at the smile. “Excited? Hm, are we excited, Varric?”

“Maybe a bit, Rivaini,” Varric said. “We got something for you.”

Varric patted an assortment of loose papers, a wicked smirk on his face. Anders, briefly, felt like checking to see if the doors were locked behind him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A little reading,” Varric said. “You like reading, right Blondie?”

“Uh,” Anders said, but then the papers were shoved at him, and Isabela was draping an arm around his shoulder, deftly preventing him from escaping.

“Oh,  _ fine,”  _ he grumbled, and took the manuscript in hand, squinting to read it. The strokes seemed a bit shaky, as though it was written in a rush. After a quick glance at it, he looked up and raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “’On The Subject of the Rights of Mages’?” he asked.

The two of them looked utterly gleeful. “Go ahead,” Isabela purred. “Tell us what you think.”

“Alright, then.” He cleared his throat, and started. “’To all men and women belong these rights: the right to self-governance…’ Oh Andraste’s  _ tits  _ that’s a long sentence! Did the author of this not known what a period was?”

Varric and Isabela burst out laughing, Varric slamming his hand on the table. Anders felt the pieces click in his mind—oh, this is what they wanted. Entertainment. Fun. Poking at some writing, probably by someone they didn’t like very much.

Well, Anders could oblige.

“Alright,” he said. “Well, let’s look at this. Hmmm, is there supposed to be some kind of argument here? Am I supposed to be able to keep track when the sentence goes on for half a page?”

It wasn’t actually half a page, but this drew more snickers from Isabela and Varric. “Don’t stop there, Blondie. Let us hear it.”

Anders gave his best impression of a whining child. “Do I have to?”

But he made his way through it. He knew how to crack a good joke, and his audience seemed to eat it up. It felt nice to be liked.

“’It is your responsibility—the responsibility of every man, every woman, every free person in Thedas—to join us, to ensure that…’ Alright, well, Mr. Author, it’s not my business to do anything, especially if you get all snippy with me like that!”

Isabela and Varric burst out into more raucous laughter.

“You tell them, Blondie,” Varric said, wiping at his eye.

“Very funny.”

The three of them turned to hear the source of the voice. Standing at the rather wrecked entrance of the Hanged Man was Hawke, leaning against the door like she’d been there a while.

“Hey, Hawke!” Varric said. “Come join us.”

Hawke stalked over, but instead of sitting down with them she snatched the manifesto out of Anders’ hands, making papers fly.

“Hey!” Anders said. “We were reading that!”

Hawke glared at him, darkly. “And you’ve done enough of that,” she told him. “I’m glad you all seem to think it’s all so  _ funny,  _ what happens to mages in the Gallows _.” _

“Oh for the love of—” Anders practically swore. “Is there something wrong with joking around, now?”

She stared at him for a long time, and for some reason it made his stomach flip guiltily. “I guess I’m not surprised,” she said. “You really are useless, you know that Anders?”

“Useless?” Anders snapped. “What, because I don’t like judgy political manuscripts as much as you?”

“You really don’t know a thing. But alright,” Hawke sneered, before addressing Varric and Isabela. “I guess I’m glad that you all have someone who  _ cares  _ less. I hope you’re all having fun.”

“Hey.” Isabela sounded a bit testy. “Don’t you think you should lay off a bit?”

Hawke just snarled at her, and snatched up the rest of the pages. Anders looked down.

“Hawke,” Varric said, sounding conciliatory.

“No, Varric,” Hawke snapped back. “Whatever you’re going to say, the answer is no.”

And with that, the manifesto in her grip suddenly lit up on fire, turning to ash instantly. Her footsteps were heavy as she stormed out. Varric took a sip from his glass.

“Oh boy,” Isabela said. “Something’s crawled up her ass today.”

Anders stared into his drink, and frowned. Still, he lifted the glass and downed the rest.

\--

In his dreams, he was nothing again. Or nearly nothing. Wisps of thought struggling to reform, to rise up again.

There were images. Different, this time. Faded, transparent faces full of suffering. A woman’s face, pale and cruel, red lips curled into a sneer. Another’s, eyes grey and staring at him in horror.

_ Demon!  _ He heard.  _ Desecration! _

The images swirled again, and last of all, he was looking at someone. Looking down at them, as they folded their arms and rolled their eyes at him. He saw shining blond hair, brown eyes flickering with firelight, a flash of gold in places—jewelry. And then, a sardonic smile that was gone as soon as it came.

Their lips moved soundlessly. Their words were lost to the dream, and yet… he felt gripped by a strong emotion.

“Anders,” he started.

But whatever he was going to say, it was lost to him. He was nothing again. He was only fear, and the feeling of squirming, of fading—of dying. And there was a terrible certainty to all of it.

His time was running out.

But then he woke up, frowning as he tried to piece together what he had been saying in his dream.

“But I  _ am  _ Anders,” he grumbled at no one.

There was no answer.

\--

Fenris was still quiet the next day. Neither of them said much, but instead they got to work immediately to make the mansion more secure. But then, halfway through tearing up a bookshelf, a board hit him in the face, and he stumbled back, tripping over something.

Over one of the dead bodies. The dead bodies that they had left there.

Something in Anders snapped.

“Alright,” he said, pushing up his sleeves. “Alright then.”

Fenris looked at him. “Anders?”

Anders grabbed the body by the leg, and started hauling it.

“What are you doing?” Fenris asked.

But Anders didn’t respond. Instead he flung the body into a corner as furiously as he could, given his weak arms, and immediately went after another one.

“That’s it,” Anders said, unaware of whether Fenris could hear him or not. “I’m not doing this anymore. Nope.”

Fenris seemed to have stopped his work, confused as Anders dragged all the bodies into a pile.

“Are you done?” Fenris asked testily. “And can we get to work on barricading the windows, now?”

“No!” Anders said. “Actually—”

Fenris’s eyes widened as Anders burst through the bars on the window with a blast of force magic, letting light stream in.

“What are you doing?” Fenris snarled.

“The sane thing!” Anders said.

He proceeded to the next window, when Fenris grabbed at his staff, glaring at him.

“Look,” Anders said. “I refuse. I just—I refuse to live like this!”

“Like what?” Fenris said. “Like we have a dangerous enemy that will break into our home?”

“Yes!” Anders said. “Just—I don’t know who we were before, but I am not going to live like them. I’m not going to hide some scared rodent in a dirty old mansion full of corpses, with no light, no clean furniture, no reasonable carpeting. I want to actually  _ live,  _ dammit!”

Fenris’s grip slackened. Their eyes met. Fenris, as always, was hard to read, but Anders saw his forehead crease, as though thinking. Anders took the moment to storm off, and burst a hole in one of the other barricaded windows.

“And the curtains here—they’re all hideous!” He ran toward one, and tore at it. “How old are these, anyway? And those paintings—ugly!”

Fenris stomped up to him, and Anders stopped, flinching. Then, to Anders’ surprise, Fenris snarled, and started tearing at the curtain as well.

“You’re right,” he growled. “I hate this place.”

“Great!” Anders shouted, matching his energy. “Me too!”

They managed to rip off the curtain together. “It reeks,” Fenris said. “The air—it’s oppressive. Every corner, every inch feels cursed.”

“Awful!” Anders said. “Let’s burn it all.”

Hours later, the place was stripped bare. Nothing had been spared, save the books which they had piled up to look through later. They had torn old paintings off the wall, broken what were likely priceless antiques into neat wooden pieces, torn up the matted rugs to pieces and tossed every last bit into a contained magic fire.

Anders cackled gleefully, and tossed an old but beautifully embroidered cushion into the blaze.

“You know,” he said. “We must have been miserable assholes before. To live like this.”

Fenris was staring into the fire, and Anders could see its reflection flickering in his eyes. He seemed transfixed.

“But,” Anders continued. “We can be happy now.”

Fenris turned to look at him, and when he smirked Anders realized it had been much too long since he’d seen that face.

\--

At the market, they were back to bickering about everything they could. About whether the rug in the parlor should be the same color as the curtains, about what style of furniture they wanted, about whether this chair matched  _ that  _ chair—

“You’re terrible,” Anders complained.

“And you are color blind,” Fenris replied, tone laced with amusement.

“For the last time,” Anders huffed. “This is the same red as the carpet we picked out! And the material…”

They were leaving with all their purchases packed into a rented cart when Anders heard mewling. He let himself wander off while Fenris was distracted haggling with the cart driver, and soon he was in an alley, following the sound into a large dumpster, sticking half of his body in and pulling out… a sack, as it turned out

When he looked in it, he gasped.

“Anders?” Fenris was called from down the alley.

“Look!” Anders shouted--squealed, more fairly. “We  _ have  _ to keep them.”

Anders saw Fenris’s face wrinkle up before he even looked into the sack, but when he did it turned particularly sour.

“You wish to take these mangy flea-bitten rats to our home?” he asked.

“Yes!” Anders said. “And they’re cats, you grump. Wrong animal.”

Fenris poked his head in again, and frowned. “This big one…”

“The mommy!”

“It has no fur,” Fenris pointed out.

“It’s a lovely kitty!” Anders cooed. “Isn’t that right, Fluffybuns?”

It yowled at him. Fenris drew his neck back.

“Is that a cat?” he asked. “It looks… eh. Not very catlike.”

There were, indeed, three mewling fluffy kittens sprawling around and huddling up to the adult hairless… well, probably a cat. It was about the size of a cat, and had claws and triangle ears and an approximate tail.

“It looks more like a dog. Although it’s difficult to tell...its face is so mangled.”

“She must have fought to defend her babies! Oooh, didn’t you, Madame Fluffybuns? Oh, look, Fenris, she’s purring!”

“I think it is  _ growling,  _ Anders. I would advise removing your hand from--is that a hump on its back?”

“The Maker has made us all imperfect in our own perfect ways, Fenris.”

It had claws, and catlike ears, and catlike eyes, though its face did look a bit doggish. And a bit mangled. And its back had a strange hump. It yowled again, and curled around the kittens.

“See, cats yowl.”

“So do some varieties of darkspawn,” said Fenris.

“She’s beautiful,” Anders said, “Just the way she is.

Fenris pulled a face. “Fine,” he said. “If you say so.” He hesitated, and picked up one of the kittens. It nuzzled into his hand and made a tiny  _ mrrp  _ sound.

“See!” Anders said happily. “You love them too!”

“I love nothing and no one,” Fenris snarled, and picked up another kitten. “You carry the ‘mother’. We should get them some food.”

\--

That night, there were no images in Anders’s dreams. There were only feelings—suffocating, fading, burning. A feeling of dying. And lastly, there was a flash of blue, slowly vanishing into the darkness. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter came out a lot sadder than I intended it. Sometimes, I guess, you try to write the funny but the sad comes out. Oh well, at least there's kittens.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been commenting!! Or leaving kudos, kudos are excellent. You all rock. Next chapter: More Merrill, More blood magic, more interior decoration. If I stay on track.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of returning to old habits, but also forming new ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had 12 work free hours to write this yesterday, in peace... and I ended up doing it for 4 hours in the early morning while I was barely lucid. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Fenris watched as Anders muttered under his breath as he waved his staff around.

“Keep that up and your muttering will interfere with the spell,” Fenris pointed out.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anders replied with false cheer. “I forgot you’re the expert on spellcasting here. Silly me!”

But when he cast it again, he had stopped muttering. A light shimmer flashed over the mansion for a moment, and Anders was suddenly breathless, clearly weakened from casting it over the whole manor.

“Right,” Anders said. “There we go. Try to go in?”

Fenris did so easily, poking his head out a window.

“And you?” he asked.

Anders took one step forward, and then paled. “Oh, for the love of—”

He threw his staff to the ground and cursed, actually stomping his feet like an enraged child. Fenris rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, and belatedly realized he was wiping away a smirk.

“I’m doing it right,” Anders whined. “I went through all the steps. I’m sure of it!”

He had tried the same ward nine times now. It was the same one that he had used to ward off their pursuer before they got to Kirkwall, but now he was trying to perfect it so… well, so it could protect both of them.

It had not exactly been a resounding success.

“I’m not a bloody demon,” Anders said petulantly. “I’m not.”

Fenris felt his lips quirk up again. “Perhaps it will work if you enter the house first, and then cast.”

“Oh no,” Anders said. “I’m not gonna risk eviscerating myself. Ugh.”

The spell dissipated, and Anders came back in and threw himself on the couch. The singular couch, which they had just bought after burning all the old furniture. After a moment, he rolled over and addressed one of the kittens that was stumbling awkwardly out from under the couch.

“You know I’m not a demon,” he mumbled, holding out his hand. “Right, kitty?”

But before he could even touch the thing, the larger pet they’d taken into their house—Fenris still refused to believe it was a cat—jumped out, yowling at Anders and swatting at his hand before dragging the kitten back under the couch. Anders gave a pained gasp.

“Oh, this is the thanks I get for healing and feeding all of you,” he said. “Oh, the indignity! The humanity! The…”

Fenris watched as Anders berated the cats under the couch for a minute, getting only annoyed yowls in returned. But he was not there long after—if there was anything Fenris had learned about Anders, it was that he had a bottomless reserve of energy. In a moment he was up again, deeply cleansing every inch of the floors and walls while Fenris worked on slating the new tiles they’d gotten to the floor—the old ones had been terribly cracked, and ugly to boot.

Everything about this place had been ugly. But they were making improvements. Fenris sniffed a moment, and turned to Anders.

“That smell…” he frowned, questioningly, and noticed that Anders was… glowing faintly as he scrubbed away.

“Cleansing aura,” Anders explained, wrinkling his nose. “Should be dissolving all the blood and grease and other nastiness that’s hidden under all these floorboards. Should be improving the smell, as well. Makes the place more livable all around.”

Fenris went back to his work, imagining years of sweat, blood, and tears burning away within the mansion walls.

\--

Fenris was hanging up yet another curtain when he caught sight of Merrill at their doorstep. He could see her chewing her lip, hesitating before she knocked. When he opened the door to invite her in, she jumped.

“Oh, sorry!” she said. “I mean. Hello.”

“Hello… Merrill,” he said, unsure. She was watching him with bright eyes, shoulders practically up to her ears. “You’re nervous,” he stated.

“I—well, yes,” she said, frowning.

Fenris felt icy pinpricks inside him. He tried to remember what Merrill’s face had looked like during that moment, the one he had been replaying in his head nonstop since.

_There were others. And when the time came, he cut them down._

_I already know._

It was hard to recall Merrill’s exact expression that night. But seeing how stiff she was now as she unpacked her bags, he had a good idea.

“Come in,” he said.

“Oh! Yes, thank you.”

She entered, and then stopped, a confused expression immediately crossing her face as she looked around. Eventually, her gaze settled on him, some kind of unspoken question in it. Fenris crossed his arms.

“It’s so… bright,” she said. “The cobwebs are all gone.”

He grunted back. “Sit,” he told her, gesturing to a chair.

“Oh! Right.”

In an instant, she was sitting down, taking out a bunch of drawings.

“So,” she said, chewing her lips nervously. “I figured—I know it must be a bother, but everyone else told me that they hadn’t really come up to, um, help? Or talk things through? You know defense plans and such, regarding the….”

Merrill immediately started gesturing, indicating something with claws. Fenris blinked, and frowned.

“The… cat?”

Merrill’s face fell. “No, I mean the…?” she frowned, and indicated something large.

“I…” Fenris was started to wonder if she were mocking him, and then he understood. “The thing that’s pursuing me?”

“Yes!” Merrill said, clapping her hands together. “That lady.”

Fenris scowled to himself, and saw Merrill’s mood instantly freeze again. She swallowed.

“Um,” she said. “I just figured… we might want to do a bit of figuring about her. You know, combine our knowledge of her abilities, goals, methods… maybe figure out what she is? Or at least how we can, you know, guard you both…”

Fenris stared. “That’s… you’re right.”

“Really?” Merrill looked a bit surprised.

“Yes, we need to share what we know,” he replied. And then frowned. “Anders should be here.”

“Oh, yes,” Merrill said. “Where is Anders?”

There was a telling growl and a crash from the upstairs room, followed by cursing and hissing.

“He said he was going to try to give the ‘cat’ a bath,” Fenris explained.

Merrill blinked, ears twitching a bit in confusion. “Cat?”

In an instant, the ‘mother’ cat burst out of a door upstairs and bolted down the stairs, leaving a trail of soapy water behind it. Merrill yelped as it screeched around the corner, hiding right back under the couch.

“Lady Fluffybuns!” Anders cried out, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Come back, this potion will help you grow your hair back!”

He was scuttling down the stairs, and then he stopped, beaming.

“Oh, Merrill!” he said.

Merrill gave a polite wave.

\--

Once the three of them were sitting down, she was pulling out paper and showing them a drawing.

“Pretty!” Anders said. “…What is it?”

“It was on the lady,” Merrill told him. “Right on her left shoulder. I re-drew what I saw as best I could.”

“So our pursuer has a fondness for tattoos,” Fenris muttered. “What of it?”

Anders immediately gasped, taking Fenris by the shoulder. “Was that a joke? A _joke?”_

Fenris forced a scowl, but Anders’s cooing continued.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

Merrill coughed. They both snapped their heads back to her.

“The lady,” Merrill said.

“That creature,” Fenris echoed. “Right.”

Merrill dove into explaining. It wasn’t a mere tattoo, but a glyph—one that was blood magic related. It had even started to bleed fresh as she watched.

“I think—I’m not too familiar with this,” she said, “But from what I can recognize… this is supposed to be something related to spirits. To… demons. And, well, she referred to herself… plurrally, at times. Did you catch that?”

“An abomination,” Fenris said.

“Well,” Merrill said. “Possessed, yes. But there are a few inconsistencies with how a, erm, regular abomination looks and acts? She might be—dead. Held together purely by blood magic, with a demon inside. I think the proper term would actually be a revenant. But then, she’s rather articulate for one of those…”

And they talked further. Soon, they were writing lists of every spell and attack they had seen the creature use—and every spell or attack that had been effective against it. The two lists were not… very balanced. But strangely, Merrill noted, it had seemed weak to entropy magic even though it also had some entropy spells itself.

Merrill, as it turned out, was quite brilliant. And…fun to listen to, and talk to as well.

“So,” Merrill said cheerily. “Killing her might be a bit of a trial, but it’ll be easy enough to paralyze her, put her to sleep, weaken her, disorient her… hmm, I wonder what effect a waking nightmare spell would have. There are some blood spells I—oh.”

Suddenly she was looking up at them with wide, apprehensive eyes.

“Well, go on,” Anders prompted. “We’re listening.”

Merrill shuffled in her seat.

“Is… something the matter?” Fenris asked. “Have we made you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, I—well not like that. I just—are you sure you’re okay with me talking about all this around you both?”

Her eyes were very bright and suddenly pitiful looking. Fenris frowned. “Talking about what?” he asked.

She looked down at the table, dejected. “I… I don’t want to lie to either of you. Or trick you,” she said. “Neither of you liked me much.”

“What? Not _like_ you?” Anders asked. “But you’re so—why, you’re adorable!”

Fenris glared, and elbowed him.

“—And smart, and capable, and you seem to know your demons,” Anders added. “Also, did I mention that we really need your help?”

Merrill took a deep breath. “It’s because I’m a blood mage,” she held her chin up. “Neither of you… approved of blood magic.”

Fenris glanced at Anders, who seemed to have shot a glance at him at the same time. Anders seemed to be… waiting on what he said about it, actually.

“Well,” Fenris started cautiously. “Neither of us have a problem with it now. Your knowledge is commendable. Impressive.”

“It’s the same as any other magic, right?” Anders chimed in. “As long as you aren’t sacrificing unwilling participants or making anyone your blood slave… those are things you can do with magic, right? I feel like you’re not doing any of that.”

“No,” Merrill said, a bit quiet.

“I don’t see what the problem is then,” Fenris said.

Anders folded his arms. “ _I_ think,” he said, “The fact that you think we hate you, but you came over here to help us anyway, even though you were clearly nervous about it, says everything I need to know about your character.”

Merrill looked between the two of them for a moment. “Well,” she said, blinking. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

She stared down again, fidgeting. For a moment, she gave a hollow laugh.

“Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to tell you about elvhen history…”

Fenris frowned. “Did I not want to hear about elvhen history before?”

“I… not from me you didn’t.” Merrill frowned deeply for a moment.

She looked truly miserable. Fenris waited for Anders to step in, to say something comforting and heal, like he always did. But he didn’t, so Fenris stood up.

“Let’s… make you some tea,” Fenris said. “I would like… we would like? For you to stay awhile.”

“Yes!” Anders agreed. “We have so much more to discuss! Like, how that monster keeps finding us.”

“Phylactery, probably,” Merrill said quickly. “Also, blood magic.”

“Brilliant!” Anders said. “We can talk magic. Blood magic. Memory magic. And other things. Our interior re-decorating project, the quality of fabric at the Kirkwall markets… I could tell you about our cats…”

“Elvhen history,” Fenris said. “I would like to… learn about it.”

Merrill stared, wide-eyed. “Oh,” she said, excited. “I’d love that!”

“We can make you dinner,” Anders said, and then, he leaned in wickedly. “And since you seem like such an honest sort, you can tell us about everyone _else_ we hated before this. Give us all the gossip.”

Merrill giggled. “Of course!” she said. And then, she blanched. “Erm, w-well….you see...”

She seemed on the verge of saying something, but then broke into a sunny smile. “So! What will be for dinner?”

\--

When Hawke arrived, it was with none of Merrill’s timidity or hesitation. Her footsteps were loud, and Aveline’s were even louder behind her.

Fenris had left Merrill and Anders’ company a while ago in favor of prowling around both in and outside the mansion, on the lookout. It had suddenly struck him that they had all of their backs turned to possible threats while that thing could be upon them at any moment. And then, he’d heard some noises in the window, and—

Strangely, he fell right into it. He knew all the right places to check for entry, all the best places to keep a lookout. He had done it before, he supposed.

He had his hand on his sword when he made out Hawke’s face. She hadn’t looked too startled, or impressed.

“Fenris,” she said. “You’re…”

“Guarding,” he told her.

Her face was a rather severe one already, but the frown she pulled made it look even more severe. Aveline’s face, behind her, was less severe but equally furrowed.

“Come inside,” he said to both of them.

Aveline’s jaw dropped when she entered. Hawke grimaced.

They had done a bit more work on the mansion—Merrill had gotten excited talking about all their plans for the place, and then they had all gotten up to start hanging up more curtains. Upside-down, as it turned out. They had taken a few drinks before attempting, which meant they had to redo the curtains a few times. But now, Anders and Merrill were not working on anything. They were crouched, Anders’ hand stretched out as he beckoned to “Lady Fluffybuns” in the corner.

“See! See!” Anders said. “She’s letting me be in the same room already—she’ll love me by the end of the week!”

Merrill giggled, and fell over from where she was crouching.

“There are… colors,” Hawke said suspiciously, looking around.

“Looks like a Fade horror realm to me,” Aveline said. “Are those… new curtains?”

“Hey!” Anders shouted. “What are you saying about our curtains?!”

Hawke sniffed, and frowned. “Does this place smell fresh, or is it just that I got out of Darktown?”

“You did just get out of Darktown,” Aveline said. “But it’s… different. Here.”

“Good ol’ cleansing aura,” Anders drawled. “Makes everything so—livable.”

“Everything is livelier, yes,” Fenris agreed, he went to go help Anders up. Anders wobbled as he stood, and Fenris let his touch linger a bit. “One of the benefits of being with a mage.”

He heard a choke from Aveline, and turned to see the guard captain with her hands up, backing away.

“…I can’t do this, Hawke. You’re on your own.”

Hawke looked stricken. “You promised me,” she said. “You said you’d stand by me and help me get through this.”

“I’m sorry,” Aveline said, pain written over her features. “I’m not strong enough.”

And with that, she fled into the night.

“Well what’s _her_ problem?” Anders asked loudly.

\--

They sat Hawke down and soon Anders was chatting, with Merrill interjecting every now and then. It was strangely easy to let Anders talk while Fenris stood aside, listening, watching. It lifted a burden, almost. But then Hawke was staring at him, eyes dark.

 _I already know,_ Fenris could hear again.

But if she was thinking about that, about the fog warriors, as much as he was, it didn’t show. Hawke, too, seemed like a silent one. And she listened to Anders prattle for a moment, before Anders stopped to scrunch his nose.

“Oh, ew,” he said. “You smell awful.”

Hawke gave him a ghost of a smile. “Darktown scent,” she said. “It sticks.”

“Darktown. Right,” Anders frowned. “What were you doing down there?”

Her lips twitched, but not in a pleasant way. “Helping mages,” she said.

“Ah, right,” Anders sat back. “You’re very… earnest, about all that.”

Hawke glared.

“A good thing!” Anders insisted. “Sorry I was making fun of your manifesto.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at him. “My manifesto,” she repeated, drily.

“Yes,” Anders said, bulldozing on. “I really do appreciate the… sentiments, in it. But I just, can’t imagine myself ever doing much about it. It just all seems very political. Ugh, I’m…” he frowned, suddenly clutching his head.

Fenris took the opportunity to pour more wine in Anders’s glass, and in Hawke’s. She took it in hand a moment, pressed it to her lips, and then withdrew, as though suddenly realizing something. Then, she slowly put her glass on the table, and looked at Fenris.

“Fenris,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t like wine?” he asked.

She pushed it away, making just a bit of it spill over the edge. Then, abruptly, she stood up.

“I was going to tell you both something,” she said, blankly. “But not now. Merrill, get up. We’re going.”

Merrill groaned. “But I think Lady Fluffybuns is almost…”

Hawke swept by and dragged her up by the collar of her shirt. Merrill squeaked.

“We’re going,” she repeated.

“Wait!” Fenris said, hurrying over and grabbing the books they had been poring over earlier. “Don’t forget all those blood magic books you were going to take home.”

Hawke squinted.

“Oh yes!” Merrill said, running to get them. “Thank you very much!”

Right before they left, Hawke stopped, and turned around.

“I’m going to get your memories back,” she said. “Both of you.”

And then, she was gone.

\--

Fenris dreamt.

In his dreams, he was pouring wine. Glass after glass, face after sneering face, but he didn’t get a drop. He didn’t get to sit down. Then he was circling the mansion, going to all those vulnerable spots and guard places he remembered, standing in them complacently. Being a guard.

He was overtaken by a sense of intense wrongness, and then--he woke up.

Anders had already made breakfast, started cleaning and greeted him with a bright smile. And then, he was pulling out some books and parchment.

“Come on,” Anders said. “I have no idea what I was thinking in the past, but it’s time you learned to read.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! special thanks to the four people who commented last chapter--you all are great for keeping up with it consistently?? It gives me so much motivation to keep seeing people's reactions. But new commenters are welcome! Even if you just write a line or something. Or just leave kudos. It's all appreciated.
> 
> Next chapter: I... (checks outline) are we scheduled to go into the Fade next chapter? What... I'm not ready for that... PROBABLY MORE FILLER NEXT CHAPTER. I MEAN CHARACTER BUILDING. YEAH.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really happens in this one tbh, you could probably even skip it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This is coming a bit late. But it's a long chapter, the longest for this fic so far, and it needed a bit more work anyway. Plus, I have kind of... started some professional writing? That I am getting paid for???? so I'm going to be a bit busier, but it's all very exciting.

Fenris was still too quiet.

It felt better, Anders realized, to be with the others. And if he could not be with all the others, it was best to be working. When Merrill was gone and Hawke had stomped off with her to do Maker knew what, the house suddenly seemed quiet. Being alone here, being alone with _Fenris_ was…

Uncomfortable, he realized.

It made his head ring. He needed to hear people, to talk to people, to have things moving around him. Fenris said little and his expressions and movements were as absent as his actual voice. He gestured little, fidgeted less, and besides anger there were few emotions that cracking through his stony visage.

But the moments he had smiled, had laughed… well, it made Anders ache a little, to think about it and see how remote Fenris was now, after Hawke had left.

Anders felt a surge of fury. Why wouldn’t he bother to explain what he was feeling? At least make some sort of comment on Hawke or Merrill, on _anything_ ? Why didn’t he _say_ something?

But Anders swallowed that, and addressed Fenris gently.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Fenris frowned. “I thought she would tell me about the Fog Warriors.”

Anders sighed. “Do you really want to hear about them now?”

He could see the muscles in Fenris’s face tighten. “I have to.”

It was strange, Anders realized, to try and fit himself into a relationship he couldn’t remember. Strange and uncomfortable, and he could feel it was for Fenris too. They touched each other, held each other—but Fenris’s touch was always rough and uncertain, like he couldn’t remember how to be gentle. And when Anders reached out first—to hold his hand, to run fingers through his hair—Fenris seemed unresponsive, even stiff.

It was so much easier when they had been focused on running away.

Fenris would pull away in bed at night, never sleeping too close. And he would rise in the middle of the night to pace around. Fenris, he found, was different when he thought he wasn’t being watched. When he didn’t know Anders was there, his hands would form tight fists, his face would contort painfully—guilt, he assumed, fear over things he couldn’t even remember. He would prowl through the mansion, pacing and patrolling, stiffening at every sound.

“I keep thinking that creature will be back,” Fenris said in the morning. “Every sound I hear, I think...”

There were lots of sounds in the mansion, at night.

“It hasn’t attacked for a long while,” Anders said. “What do you think it’s doing? Reporting to its master? Watching us as it bides its time?”

Fenris stiffened at the thought. “I hope not,” he said. “But if it is, we will kill it.”

So Fenris kept pacing at night, getting less and less sleep. Anders figured that the wrenching in his chest he felt over this—well that’s what love had to be, didn’t it?

Fenris, he decided, was his _cause._ And so he set to work. The pain in the markings—well, healing magic wouldn’t be enough. He had to find a way to fix it so Fenris wouldn’t have to rely on Anders being around. So he studied—read up on lyrium and its adverse effects, slowly started to mix and remix potions and elixirs until he had something.

Fenris stared at the container with the mixture, wrinkling his brow when Anders held it out. “What is it?”

“A balm,” Anders explained. “It has numbing as well as healing effects, particularly healing against lyrium burns and the like.”

He saw comprehension dawn on Fenris’s face. “For my markings.”

“That’s right! Now get that shirt off, this needs to be rubbed in. I figured I might do the honors.”

It worked. Fenris winced a little at the first touch, but Anders could feel the tension ease out as the balm started to do its work. When Fenris sat up, he looked strangely younger, his face no longer so taut and wrinkled with the expression of one stoically enduring.

“It's… more than I hoped for,” Fenris said. “I’m having trouble believing it.”

“I’m having trouble believing my past self didn’t do this before,” Anders said. “What _was_ I thinking, back then?”

Anders decided to never let the place be quiet. He worked on the house every moment he could, prompted Fenris for idle conversation and told jokes in an effort to wring those smiles out of Fenris. He mixed herbs and remedies and tested them, always looking for something that worked just a little better, lasted a little longer.

And then, there were the reading lessons.

Fenris was a dedicated student, willing to practice the sounds of each letter for hours at a time. Anders set to work immediately, writing up words and letters with big, block-like handwriting unlike his usual style, taking long sheets of paper and writing on them, illustrating them, and having Fenris trace each letter.

And then, one day, when he was walking around the corner of one of the halls, he noticed Fenris crouching, holding out his hand as Lady Fluffybuns stepped forward slowly, outstretching her neck (Maker, she had a long neck for a cat, didn’t she?) to sniff at Fenris. The kittens were behind her.

“Unbelievable,” Anders said, mindful not to raise his voice so as to not startle the cat. “They _like_ you. Better than me!”

“That’s not so hard to believe,” Fenris said.

Anders made a wounded noise. But Fenris laughed.

“You set yourself up for that one,” he pointed out.

“I suppose so,” Anders grumbled. “Hey, Lady Fluffybuns! What about me?”

He leaned forward, and the cat immediately jumped back, and spat—actually _spat_ right at him—and then backed away, the kittens following her.

Fenris took one look at Anders’s huffy face, and smirked.

“Well, I’m glad you are getting some enjoyment out of this,” Anders grumbled, crossing his arms. And then, a bit more seriously. “They all need space. Can’t try to smother them with affection to soon, or demand too much from them. Just leave them alone, let them get used to you…”

“Is that what you’re supposed to do?” Fenris asked drily. “And yet you keep pestering them.”

Anders huffed. “Anyway, they’ll get used to us both, eventually. These things take time.”

* * *

 

“Our friends,” Fenris said, “are hiding something.”

Anders had noticed it too--the strange reactions, the looks between Varric and Isabela, the hemming and hawing Merrill did with them. But he hadn’t thought about it too deeply until Fenris had brought it up.

“They do seem to… act like we’re monkeys performing some really funny tricks,” Anders said, frowning. “I figured we’ve just been acting a bit different from before.”

Varric had whistled when he saw the place. “Well damn,” he said. “New curtains, new carpeting… the works.”

Isabela had laughed, and ruffled their hair. “You two have been busy, haven’t you?”

But they’d been strangely quietly as Anders and Fenris took them around the place, especially when Anders showed them the table they had been mixing the balm at and all of the posters with letters and illustrations on them.

When Merrill joined them—eyes lined with dark circles, mumbling about magical research she’d been pouring over with Hawke—she curled up in a giant, cushioned chair next to their fireplace and told them tales of elvhen history. Isabela lounged on one of the couches, Varric in one of their squashy new chairs. Fenris leaned against Anders as they listened, warm against his side, rapt with attention.

“I’m so glad for you both,” Merrill said later that evening. “You both seem so nice and happy, and after all the fights—Oh!”

She immediately covered her mouth, ears twitching.

“Fights?” Fenris asked.

“I—” Merrill swallowed.

“We used to fight?” Anders frowned. “What did we fight about?”

“Gentlemen, please,” Isabela drawled. “You both have the glorious opportunity to live a little without remembering any old domestic squabbles. Do you really want us to bring them up for you?”

“Um,” Anders blinked. “I… Fenris?”

Fenris seemed to hesitate as well.

“You know,” Isabela said suddenly, not looking at either of them. “I don’t think you two understand how good you have it. I’d kill to forget all my troubles for a few weeks. Get rid of all the old regrets.”

When they were all gone, Anders locked up and put some protective enchantments around the windows and doors. When he came back, Fenris was staring into the fire, eyes flickering brightly.

“Do you remember when we danced?” he asked. “I would like to… again.”

As they moved together, though, all he could read in the movements was a question—Fenris searching for something, trying to glean more memories from the motion as he had before. The hall was strangely silent then, and Anders felt himself shriveling up under it.

 _Talk_ , he wanted to say. Remember. _Say something—or at least enjoy it all for once._

But this time, there was nothing.

* * *

 

Hawke told them they were going into the Fade. She didn’t ask. She didn’t even give them a lot of time to respond. She just barged in at the earliest possible hour, and marched them off to her estate.

“I have a correspondent in the Circle,” she explained. “He says if your memories still exist, then they should be deep in the Fade, in your own… ugh, personal spirit realms? Something every dreamer has, apparently. There’s a ritual to draw old memories to the surface.”

There was a room in her estate that had been cleared out, a giant circle of runes inscribed on the floor, along with heaps of lyrium. The others were there—Aveline, Isabela, Varric, and Merrill in the middle.

Anders felt rising dread as they all started to prepare, but Hawke and the rest carried on. They were quickly ushered to the middle of the circle. He looked to Fenris, hoping to see some of his apprehension mirrored in his partner. Instead, all he got was determination, and a squeeze of his hand.

“Good luck Blondie, Broody,” Varric said once they were in the circle and Merrill was ready to activate it.

“Safe voyage.” Isabela winked.

Right as he saw the lyrium flash, Anders’ stomach dropped. He thought about the scars he’d found running down his back, and shuddered.

“But what if…”

It was already too late.

* * *

 

He turned to see Fenris briefly, watched his eyes widen with shock and fear. He clutched Fenris’s hand, feeling their fingers still linked together for just a moment before he felt a tug, something pulling him away.

“Anders,” Fenris’s voice was shaking. “Stay—”

But Anders felt himself ripped back, and their hands were torn apart. Then, everything was dark and quiet—too, too quiet.

He screamed Fenris’s name, but the sound didn’t leave his throat. He flailed. There was nothing around him, nothing but the ground under his feet. The panic bubbled in him, ready to rise to the top, ready to blow up.

And then, the voices.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, not at first. They hissed and shrieked, just muffled enough for him not to make out the syllables. He stumbled after them. They were angry, he could tell. Murderous. And as he got closer, he started to make out the words.

 _Demon!_ They shrieked. _Abomination!_

_Control it._

He stood at the edge of something. Perhaps a cliff, or a deep pit—no, a pool. He stepped in. The voices rose as he waded forward, emerging himself step by step in the not-water. Their words got sharper, angrier—more afraid.

Something grasped him.

It was burning cold, unrelenting metal digging into his shoulder. There was the faintest whiff of cold air against his ear. Anders wanted to scream.

“Stop.” The voice was weak and whispering. “Do not go any farther.”

Anders found himself paralyzed, unable to pull away. “Who are you?”

There is another cold whiff against his ear, and the—the _hand_ grasping him dug further in.

“I do not believe you will gain happiness or peace from this,” it said.

“I’m here to… to find my old memories. Let go of me, demon. Whatever you are.”

The cold breath was there again. Anders wondered jf he even wanted to look back and see the form of whatever had gotten a hold of him. “But you do not wish this.”

“I…” Anders frowned. “I don’t. But well, I’m already here, aren’t I? Can’t let this whole ritual go to waste. I… I have to.”

Another cold breath, and then the hand dissolved against him. Shuddering, he pulled away and sank into the depths.

The voices, he realized, were directed at him. Shrieking, screaming, calling him wrong, calling for his death. And as he sank, each one hurt like the cut of a blade. They tore at him, wounded him--physically, as physical as anything was in the Fade. One clawed and ripped a piece of him off. He cried out a moment, and lashed out, only for more to come. With rising panic, he realize his form was dissolving.

_Demon! Get away from me!_

And then he did lash back out, channeled all the rage and fear in him and struck.

He could see again, suddenly.

He was underground, the floor beneath him. He heaved as the world spun around him. Blood, so much blood. It seeped into his boots, into the cracks in the ground, into the dirt. He was holding a staff planted deeply into the ground, into…

A pair of eyes stared glassily up at him from a child’s limp face.

He recoiled.

“Anders, what have you _done_?!”

He swerved. Everything swirled around him and force magic knocked him against the wall, a staff slammed across his body. Another face, contorted with rage and fear.

Hawke.

“She was one of us!” Hawke’s voice was dark.  “She was a mage, and you killed her.”

Again, everything went dark.

* * *

 

He didn’t have any limbs to move with. There was nothing to him at all. He could not move, could not even think.

They called him.

He moved toward them without walking, drawn forward as though pulled by invisible strings. They were voices, again: angry, fearful… and desperate.

_My child—_

_She took them, she took them and she cut their throats—_

_Centuries here—_

_Home, I want to go home—_

_That blood mage, that demon—_

_She—_

The voices were faces now. They were thin and transparent from years trapped in the Fade, and they reached for him, clawing with desperation, eyes filling with hope.

_Help us._

_Free us._

_Avenge us._

And he reached out, and found a sword in his hands.

* * *

 

The villagers were gone, everything was gone. The world was suddenly thick and grey, and his body (he had one) weighed down on him. He had to drag his every step. His limbs twitched. But he carried forward.

And still, there were voices.

_Help my child._

_Kill that bandit._

_The darkspawn, they—_

And there was a woman, eyes fearful one moment as she spat out _thing_ at him, shrieked about desecration. But then the next, her eyes were soft, and she ran a touch over his features.

“Avenge him,” she said. “Avenge my husband.”

And then, for a moment, everything slowed down. There was blond hair again, gold jewelry catching the candlelight. There was a smirk and some rolling eyes and some grumbling. And then, chewing the bottom lip, uncertain.

“So you’re all about righting wrongs and helping the oppressed. Right?”

A mortal, a mage.

“I asked the Warden Commander. He said—he said he wouldn’t go against the Templars. But I have a contact in Amaranthine. He says my phylactery’s there. Phylacteries, you know, the… Anyway, we probably should sneak away from Keep.”

“You would use deception?”

—had he said that? Or had he—

“Welcome to the world, spirit. Sometimes you have be underhanded. Now are you in or are you out?”

He was walking. They were walking. And then they were at a warehouse. Templars, claiming to be apprehending _him_ for murder. He raised his sword, and—

“I didn’t expect you to… go all out for me, like that.”

“Why would I not aid my friend against unjust oppressors such as these? Is that not what friends do?”

“I… suppose. I suppose they do.”

And at that moment, Anders realized he was looking right at himself and recoiled.

_These aren’t my memories. This isn’t me._

But once again, everything was dark.

* * *

 

Kirkwall was a wound. The city did not merely call to him, it screamed and clawed. Under the surface lay the voices of souls long gone. Up above, the Gallows wailed in pain.

They all cried out for vengeance.

“He’s corrupted.”

It was directed at him, it was always directed at him—corrupt, evil, _hateful._

“I changed him. With my anger. Now he’s not the friend I knew once, but a demon.”

He tried to move, tried to surge forward only to hit a wall of terror and panic. So he contented himself to watch, to feel the limbs he inhabited puppeted by another. To sit back, to observe a life lived that was not his own. It was not his place to want to move these hands for himself, to want to get up and act for himself, talk for himself. To desire that, to desire more control was the desire of a demon.

He would not let himself become a demon.

“I can control him.”

Him. A thing to be controlled. A dangerous, vile, corrupt—

No. He would not be a demon, no matter what all these new “friends” of his host spat at them. He was here to give, not to take. He offered. He offered his energy, his resolve, his assurance, his endless dedication—it was not his place to be angry. Anger was corruption. Want was demonic. Give, don’t take. Don’t take control. Not even in the Fade—they were staying out of the Fade entirely now, drugged out of their dreams by bitter potions.

Give. Do not take. Like Nathaniel said.

He missed Nathaniel. He missed them all. He missed talking to people himself, instead of watching a host speak for him.

He missed—himself.

* * *

 

He stood over the body of the girl again—Ella. This time, though, everything had frozen.

Anders snapped himself out of it.

“This isn’t me,” he gasped. “Those aren’t my memories. These are…”

But… this was, he realized. The girl, dead. Hawke, furious. This was him. His fault.

“No.”

Anders looked up. The scene was fading away again, into darkness. This time, though, there was a single blue light.

“This was not your doing.” The voice said, the same voice from the clawed thing that had frozen him earlier. “I did this.”

Anders stepped forward. Once again, everything was dark, save for a single wisp in front of him. Anders reached out.

“You’re—me?” Anders asked.

“You would say so, sometimes.” It flickered like a dying flame. “But I would not hold you responsible for what I have wrought.”

Anders reached forward, touched, and something hit him like a thousand needles flying into his chest. A presence entangled in his own—but not himself.

“Justice,” he said. “My friend.”

The wrenching—that wasn’t his reaction. It was Justice’s pain, but oh did he feel it as though it were his own. And just like that, his memories began to trickle back: being dragged away by the Templars in chains, thrown into a dark cellar and left to rot, a cell at Amaranthine, the ship to Kirwall, the—

“We killed Ella,” Anders said. It hit him.

“I killed her,” Justice told him. “In my rage, I could not determine friend from foe. In my anger, I…”

The memories of what came next continued to trickle. Hawke roaring at him, punching him in the eye. Stumbling through the city, panicked, afraid, purpose lost… easy prey for the Templars.

“They caught me, after that,” Anders said, even as the events played in his head. “They had me held down. They were going to make me Tranquil…”

Twice. Twice they had used the brand before he had passed out. Each time, through the shrieking as he felt his magic start to get sucked away, he felt Justice rise and fight where his body could not, throwing his pure essence up against the brand. He had felt the sunburst shaped wound on his head healing up, skin growing stubbornly back over it through Justice activating his healing magic.

And then, nothing.

“That’s how I lost my memories,” Anders said. He could remember the feeling of it against his forehead, burning his skin—and yet, reversed somehow from what lyrium usually did, sucking away all his magic instead of enhancing it, sucking away his very self. “It wasn’t connected to Fenris at all, it—oh Maker, they almost _killed_ you.”

“And it burned through your memories—as lyrium does,” Justice said. “But they are not lost. I have tried to keep hold of them for you.”

There were not. Even now, more images floated back. Hawke. Isabela. Varric. The Warden Commander. And Justice was flickering now, fading away even more.

“What’s happening to you?” Anders asked.

“I am weak,” Justice said. “Perhaps… perhaps this is for the best.”

The truth behind what he was saying gripped Anders like frost.

“You have been happy without my influence,” Justice said.

“You’re leaving.”

“I cannot leave,” Justice said. “It is not possible now. But I am… there is little energy left for me to remain like this. I suppose I cannot die as mortals do, but—neither can I maintain consciousness much longer like this. It is fitting, perhaps, after what I have done.”

“It wasn’t just you,” Anders said, hollowly, the images flashing before him again, the anger coursing through his veins anew. “It was never just you, it was—”

“And I would not trouble you further against your will,” Justice said, interrupting. “I cannot… bear your regret, Anders. Your regret over us and what we became.”

“You want to leave, then?”

“It does not matter what I want.”

Anders felt something stab him. And Justice was really almost entirely gone now.

“But—thank you,” his voice was little more than a whisper, “For allowing me to be in this world. There is so much beauty here. Thank you, thank you…”

Anders remembered the sight of a possessed corpse, blue light spilling out of cracks in its face. He could remember this spirit ambling clumsily about, reciting poetry books out loud and questioning the entire group as to the purpose of rhyme. He could remember the way he lit up at the sight of lyrium, how he poured over pages of research over its nature. He could remember them arguing about cats. He could remember everything.

Without realizing what he was doing, Anders lunged forward.

* * *

 

The Fade was light and flashing. There was too much happening, too many memories pouring in. But he was focused on the spirit, on keeping him there, giving every last bit of his healing magic to keep that spark alive.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said. “Oh no you don’t, you’re going to stay with me. You’re going to stay with me to the end, you remember? You promised, you promised—don’t leave!”

And _that_ searing in his chest was definitely Justice. “Anders.”

“I want you here,” Anders said.

“But this is not right,” Justice was once again a disembodied voice. “There should be blood for blood. I murdered that child, and so to atone, I must—”

“ _I_ did it!” Anders was practically shrieking. “I taught you to hate and fear. I kept you locked up in my head. I refused to see you as my friend anymore. It’s my fault—If you need to die, then so do I.”

“But I…” he could feel an intense pain from Justice. “I am no longer what I was. I am—I lash out over personal slights, I wish to take control more, I rage uselessly. I am confused over what is right and what is not. I doubt. I…”

It was an amazing thing, to hold a trembling spirit in his hands. He could feel the soft pulse of Justice’s energy like a kitten’s heartbeat against his palms.

“Those things don’t make you a demon,” Anders said. “They make you a person.”

More wrenching.

“Come on,” Anders said, grasping the spirit tightly. “Stay with me. You’re the only one—you’re the only _damn_ person who told me…”

It was flashing by, now. Snapping at Templars only to get blows to the head, saying it was all _wrong_ just to be hushed or even laughed at. Escaping and getting thrown in the dark for hours and hours and hours—and then being told he’d brought it on himself. Watching his fellow Wardens shrug off his fear of the new Templar in the group, getting laughed at for his caution.

And then, Justice.

“You’re the only one who stood by me,” Anders choked. “I need you.”

He was crying. He felt Justice shudder for just a moment, and then he felt Justice’s power sink into his skin and course through his veins.

* * *

 

It only took a glance at Fenris’s face after that for it all to come rushing back to him.

Anders remembered everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's coming back... with a Vengeance. ;) Anyway, in case it wasn't clear already, this fic is #justicepositive. 
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, as usual! Please pay attention to me. 
> 
> Next chapter: Fenris remembers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello naughty children it's character rerailment time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this! I should still be able to provide the next update around Sunday--or so I hope.
> 
> Warnings: violence in this chapter, vague references to past abuse, repetition use of certain expressions, also this bitch is scarcely edited because I had less time to work on it and just wanted to get the damn thing posted.

The Fade was empty.

The path Fenris followed was not one he knew. Even without his memories, he could sense the unfamiliarity of it like a foul taste in his mouth. He continued nonetheless, climbing every hill, making every turn until the path narrowed.  Soon there was barely enough space for him to walk on it.

A dense mist hovered about, too thick for him to see on either side, or ahead. But now that he looked, he could see shadows—figures that churned beneath the surface like silhouettes behind a giant white sheet. He stopped and looked harder.

People. For a moment, he could make out a few details—the curl of someone’s hair, the shape of a garment—only for them to blur and fade back into the fog. Fenris watched, and found his hand reaching out.

“Who--?” he swallowed, unsure of using his voice in this place. “Who is there?”

There was no answer.

But there was never an answer here, he was realizing—he had given up on hoping for them quickly, after shouting himself hoarse calling for Anders.

He did not go off the path. The very thought filled him with unease, even as the figures there called to him. If only Anders were there, or Merrill—even Hawke, as strange and unpleasant as the woman was, he would have taken her company. He did not know anything about this cursed place, except that there were memories, and also demons, and he had no way of knowing what shadowy figure would be which. For all these damn mages to throw him here, and leave him without guidance—

But even as he felt the anger building up in him, he found the path had narrowed even more, until it tapered off entirely into nothing. There was no way for him to follow now, just the fog on each side.

He stood there. But then, he could feel the path crumbling underneath him.

There was really no way to go—but there.

He stepped off the path, and for a small area, the fog cleared.

\--

They had no faces.

Even when Fenris chased after them reached out close enough to touch, the figures were as empty as the Fade itself. They were wisp under his fingers, slipping through like water, leaving only the briefest impression behind. One figure left him with a stinging sensation across his back, burning like newly made welts. A smaller, hunched figure left him with a slight cool sensation against his cheek, like a finger trailed across it. Sometimes, as they passed through him he would see colors, features, expressions—only to forget them in a heartbeat.

And then, one of them was dancing.

He reached forward, and felt himself whirling, heart slamming in his chest and head spinning. For a moment, just a moment, he was dizzy with glee. When the feeling slipped through again, he found himself lurching at the shadow.

“Wait!” he called out in spite of himself.

It flitted, moving through the empty air. Fenris ran after it, reached out for it again, but it dissolved into the air around him.

And then, one figure loomed taller than all of them deep in the mist at the edge of the clear area, casting a shadow of its own across the plains that made up the empty Fade world. It grew, swallowing up several of the others, inching its way toward Fenris. The second the shadow touched him, his markings burned as though newly cut.

He ran away.

\--

The giant figure did not shrink in the distance as he ran farther and farther away. It only grew, and its shadow started to crawl faster.

As Fenris ran, he realized how few figures there were left. How few—and how empty each of them was. They were less distinct the farther he went. No longer could he make out details along their edges. They were indistinct blobs of darkness. When he reached out to touch them, they provided little—a faint sense of warmth or coolness, sometimes. The feeling of a sword in his hand for the first time. But they vanished as soon as he experienced them—leaving only the memory of a memory.

Was there anything for him, here?

The shadow had become more than a flat darkness over the ground. It rose up, reaching forward like the tide. He hastened, putting as much distance between them as possible. As he ran, there were fewer and fewer figures, until there were none. There was just him and the shadow behind him, and the void in front of him.

When he found himself at the edge of a cliff, he screamed with frustration. He turned to the left and the right, decided which way to run along the cliffs edge, only to find it suddenly curved. Either direction would have him running back into the shadow. That is, unless he—

He stared off the edge of the cliff, clenching his fists. The sudden surge of rage in his chest burned as strong as his markings.

“What am I supposed to do?” he said, and somehow his voice boomed out into the void. “What do you _want_ from me?!”

And then, he let himself drop, falling to his knees. He could hear the shadow behind him, now. An insidious sound like the crackling of thunder in the distance, mixed with sharp, hissing words. They grew louder, as he curled in on himself, waiting for it to come.

It was a scream that woke him.

_I didn’t ask for this!_

Fenris’s head shot up. It was dark—much darker than before. But in the distance, he saw another figure. Two of them, in fact. And unlike the others, he could see them. Really see them.

_My child…_

_You said we would stay together! Don’t leave me, don’t leave—_

He could see every detail on them, every spec of dirt, and every pore. One the right, and elvhen woman, face worn and wrinkled, hands chapped and scarred, hair bright white with age. The other—younger, eyes impossibly large and sunken in the tiny frame of her face. She was thin and sickly, red hair streaming down her shoulders. They clung to each other even as the younger woman reached out to him.

_Wait, stop! I didn’t get to say goodbye._

_My child, where are you going? What have you done?_

But of course—he had seen them before. They were the faces that the monster had put on to lure him in. Tentatively, he reached forward.

“My mother?” he asked. “My… my sister?”

He ached. They looked through him, not truly seeing him. Of course not, they were but figments, acting out expressions he had seen long ago. And yet every inch of his being still wrenched with pain to see their faces contorted with fear and loss. The older woman’s face crumpled silently, but the red-haired girl’s voice pierced him.

_I didn’t want this—I don’t want freedom, I want to stay together. Leto, Leto don’t go—_

She was reaching forward. Their hands met, and everything swirled. His vision went white, and they were gone—but again he was left with a sensation, this one much stronger than all the others. It was the feeling of arms around him, the thin fingers of a young elven girl clutching his arm, work-hardened bony hands stroking his hair gently, a shared embrace between them—laughter, leaning against each other—his _family._

And then, they were gone.

He collapsed, suddenly shaking. Weeping.

He didn’t notice when the shadow overtook him, but he did notice the sudden burning of his lyrium markings.

Everything went dark.

\--

When he saw the light, Fenris lurched for it immediately, clawing his way out of the darkness and pain that had grown thick like mire around him. The light formed a figure, and the moment Fenris recognized it he shouted.

“Anders!” he said. “Anders!”

He almost went giddy with relief. He could feel the pain go away and the darkness clear. But the second he got a better look, he recoiled.

That was not Anders. It—whatever it was—wore Anders’ face in the same way the creature from before had worn his mother’s and sister’s. Its eyes beamed with unnatural light. He could see its essence spilling out of cracks on Anders’s skin.

It regarded him for a moment, something like distress crossing its face.

“Demon,” Fenris hissed. “What do you intend, taking his face like this?”

The energy underneath not-Anders’s skin crackled. “I am no demon.” Its voice boomed throughout the emptiness around them.

“Then begone. Trouble me no more.”

“Fenris,” There was something painfully _Anders_ in how it said his name. “Your memories have been stripped from you twice.  And you have been cruelly deceived. This is not right.”

Fenris gritted his teeth.

“I would correct this, if that is what you wish.”

“I will restore them myself,” he spat. “I need no help from your kind.”

Its face shifted unreadably, and once again energy crackled beneath the surface, eyes flashing.

“I do not know if I can give back all that you have lost,” it said, ignoring him. “But I can show you what I learned of your life—through my own eyes. Our own eyes. And… we can heal some of what the lyrium has done to you.”

On _heal_ he could hear Anders’s voice, as though his voice were rising or a moment above the demon’s. It was enough to throw Fenris off guard for a moment, to make him _long_ and think of how much he wished his grumpy mage companion was here, how he would probably know how to respond to this…

But that single moment of being offguard was enough. There was a blue glow, and then Fenris found himself staring into those eerie blue eyes until he felt himself flip.

He was staring at someone then—an elf, face drawn in a frightening snarl, arm soaked in blood as he held a pumping heart in his hand. He shrank back, cold terror crawling down his spine. He looked into the elf’s furious eyes, and—

_His own eyes._

He rebelled for a moment—this was not his own vision he was looking through, these were not his thoughts. But they overwhelmed his objections. He saw himself, but not as himself—as another, as yet another fugitive Hawke had dragged up, as a vicious, snarling warrior, as a hateful, bigoted—

He started to see images in the dark, and for a moment all thought stopped.

\--

They were underground, wading through blood and guts. Fenris saw himself, watched himself through these new eyes and felt an alien disgust growing in him. At times, they were fighting—all of them, all four of them down in a bloody, maker-forsaken tunnel—screaming at the top of their lungs. He watched his own face through these memories, contorted and frightful, as though ready to tear flesh with his teeth.

 _Savage. Brute._ It was not his thought, and he felt his very being burn in anger at it. _More wild dog than man._

He could distantly hear the shouts. They were—two of them, while the other two stood back for a moment—they were fighting. Fenris had grabbed the other man by the collar, and—

“Maybe they should make all slaves tranquil, then!” the other man hissed, shoving back at him. “Since it makes them so _docile_ and they all seem so content with their lot! It would make everything so much easier then, wouldn’t it?”

Fenris snarled at the very suggestion—angry, so angry, but he could not remember _why—_ and felt his lyrium brands light. But then he saw who he was fighting with—a dirt-smeared, worn face that looked down at him with rage and disgust.

Anders. Anders… hated him.

“Stop,” Fenris said, and he wasn’t in the memory anymore, wasn’t grasping Anders by the collar, ready to smack him across the face and shut him up. “This is a trick. I refuse to believe this. Cease your lies, demon. Cease—”

But he was flooded once more. Memories clawed at his skull—memories of himself, through Anders’s eyes. He felt every time Anders’s had sneered at him, turned up his nose, called him vicious or feral or _animal._

Fenris felt himself grow sick. He tried to summon up what he knew of Anders—the healing salves, the reading lessons, the good-natured humor, the gentle fingers trailing up his arm... but it seemed distant to him. Fuzzy like a dream after one had awakened. Next to the image of Anders sneering at him, it seemed like pale unreality.

He snapped.

“How dare you judge me?” he found himself saying. “Abomination. _Filth._ Absolute—”

He was seeing through his own eyes again, and he was lashing back. He could feel it all, his own fury and disgust. It sucked him in like the pull of the tide, swallowed him like a giant wave. The very ground seemed to crumble beneath him, and scenery around him started to peel off like the old wallpaper in the mansion. He felt his lungs burn, and grasped for air.

 _Wild dog, beast_ —

It hadn’t stung to hear it at the time. Not like this.

He could see the face of a man. A frail old human who nonetheless seemed to tower over him in his memory. But he wasn’t sneering. Instead, his lips were curled in a proud smile that made Fenris shudder with revulsion.

“Behold,” he said, and hid voice sounded eerily real for the Fade. “The crude elf that I have transformed into a masterpiece. My tame wolf. My savage beast.”

He gasped. The image melted away, and the air around him had become cool, and no longer hummed with the sickening energy of the Fade. Still, he could not see. His vision went white for a moment, and then he saw blurred shapes around him, the dark and solid colors of the room in Hawke’s mansion.

“Shit.” That sounded like Varric. “They’re both glowing.”

Fenris lurched, trying to get his bearings. He couldn’t. Everything was stil swirling, images and sensations rushing through him and leaving his nerves raw. And it was all that man, that _mage_ with the grey beard: the whisper of his breath against Fenris’s ear, the feeling of his fingers on Fenris’s skin, making his guts crawl.

And there was too much talking.

“We’re out of the Fade—”

“Hey, handsome—”

“Oh dear, I think he’s remembering. He doesn’t look very—”

“Someone grab him. He’s gonna—”

“Fenris, are you—?”

There were arms on him, holding him up. He snapped up immediately, hissing at the unwanted touch. The moment he turned around, he saw a flash of a face: blond hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, brow furrowed, blue light streaming from his eyes and from cracks in his face.

Anders. The _abomination._ Fenris felt the roar rip out of his throat

“Do not _touch me!”_

He didn’t think. He only felt, and then his lyrium was flashing and the mage let out a cry, straining as though in pain. Fenris heard voices in the distance: a shocked gasp, an aggressive shout, someone placating. But every sound was quickly washed away as all of the images from before flashed across his eyes, every hateful word either spoken aloud or thought in the deepest recesses of their minds.

He barely knew what he was doing. But he could already feel Anders’s heart beating frantically in his grasp. He watched the blue light slowly filter out of Anders’s eyes. The mage didn’t say anything, but only pawed at Fenris’s arm as he wheezed.

Fenris locked eyes with him, and all he could remember was hate.

He took a breath to feel Anders’s heartbeat, and then clenched down as hard as he could.

\--

Hawke stopped him. Fenris barely felt the rush of force magic that blew him back, but the moment he looked up, he saw her face furrowed furiously.

“Merrill!” she barked. “Restrain him!”

Merrill—Merrill was sobbing, from what he heard of her answer. But she responded quickly, and in a moment he felt magic sweep over him, paralyzing him. He was beyond words, beyond coherent thought. He screamed at the touch of magic, enraged at the restraint, maddened as he saw Varric and Isabela and even Aveline backing away, horrified.

His friends—his friends who had tricked him, lied to him, and laughed at him behind his back. He felt his stomach flip with rage. But they turned their eyes away from his quickly once Hawke did. She ignored him entirely, ignoring him as though once subdued he were as insignificant as a fly on the wall.

 “Anders,” she said. Her voice was raw.

The mage had gone limp against the floor, face against the ground.

“Oh dear,” Merrill’s voice was cracking. “Oh no…”

It was Isabela who knelt down first, checking. “He’s not… breathing.”

“Shit,” that was Varric. “Shit, Blondie… Merrill, can you…?”

“I can’t heal,” she whispered. “I can’t—I’m sorry… Hawke?”

Hawke swallowed. “I barely learned.”

Fenris stood, still paralyzed, thoughts racing. His eyes hadn’t left where Anders had fallen crumpled on the floor. Suddenly, he felt bile rising in his throat.

He had to leave. And so leave he did, bolting the moment Merrill’s spell weakened.

If they tried to stop him, if they said anything—he did not hear it.

\--

The images flashed behind his eyes, even as he ran.

Cold, icy words. Sneering when he begged for food or sleep. A crack of a whip—but never against his skin. Never. Only against the walls and the floor around him to make him flinch, against the others to draw wails from their lips. The other slaves could be beaten, bruised, scarred, but never him. Never him.

“I would not have his skin marred,” Danarius had said, and once again his voice rang unsettlingly clear in his memories.

He could feel the ache of lyrium in his skin for the first time, cold metal clasps holding him down as it was burned into his skin. He could feel himself on his knees, and a cold hand running through his hair. He could see the eyes of other slaves, widening in fear whenever he entered a room. He could see them tense, gulping, desperate to leave.

They feared him. They hated him. They spat in his face that he was not one of them.

But then… there had been some…

He remembered walking up and down the shore of Seheron, terrified. Alone. But then, he woke in some blankets, a wrinkled, kindly face peering over at him without fear, soothing poultices over all his wounds.

“Child,” the old man had said. “You are with the fog warriors now. Rest. Regain your strength. Do not trouble yourself over any master.”

(Fenris reached the mansion through all the images. His entire body trembled violently, knees giving out the moment he was inside.)

The fog had tended to him, fed him, housed him. Their faces came back to him now, one by one. The wrinkled old face of the healer who had silently tended his wounds, the bright smile and wink of the villager who had taken him out and introduce him to everyone, the young boy who stuck out his tongue in grim concentration as he showed Fenris how to weave a basket, the cheery young woman who brought back rabbits for them to cook.

And then… another one…

He was tall, human. His hair was dark and his eyes were black, but they twinkled mischievously. Fenris could recall—arms thrown around his shoulder, poorly timed jokes, high-pitched laughter even as Fenris remained silent.

“You need to lighten up,” he had said. “You’ve been free for weeks and you’ve got the same dour expression. Let’s find you something you can do for fun.”

Fenris could not remember his name, but he could remember the touch. And he could remember the man pulling him out to swim with the others in the dead of night, poking him to play inane games, making bizarre faces at him and whiningly insisting that Fenris should be laughing at them. And Fenris could remember a night by a fire, watching others dance before the man took him by the wrist.

“Hey,” he said. “I haven’t seen you dance. Come on, let’s join the others!”

“I… that is, I can’t…”

(Fenris curled up, remembering it, digging his hands into his head.)

“It’s alright if you don’t know how. I’ll show you! There’s this Orlesian Waltz—I picked it up before I joined the warriors. It’s all dignified and serious—just like you! Perfect!”

He had smiled, that night. The swirling movements had come so easily, and for once someone’s touch had seemed warm and painless. The man whose name Fenris still could not remember had shrieked in delight, and insisted on him showing everyone else in the camp his new smile.

Fenris still could not recall the man’s name. But he could recall the moment he had ripped out the man’s heart and watched his eyes go dead.

 _Kill them all,_ Danarius had said. Fenris had scarcely hesitated.

The old healer went down the easiest. The villager woman who’d he met second had thrown herself in front of the children with only a small knife to defend herself. The young child who wove baskets had thrown his hands up and tearfully pleaded for his life. The hunter girl had thrown things at him once all her arrows had ghosted through his skin.

The man, the one who had danced with him, hadn’t fought. But he had spoken.

“Monster,” was all he managed.

(Fenris crawled into a corner, and dug his fingers deep enough into his head to hurt. He curled up further, all the images still spinning in his head. Children’s bloody faces, mothers screaming, and dancing—dancing—dancing—)

\--

He did not rest. But in a few hours he rose, still reeling, and looked around.

The curtains Anders had picked out. The tiles he had fixed himself. The rug they had carried back together from the market. The sofa that the cats hid under, the chair Anders had taken to curling up in to nap, the writing desk—

Fenris stood above it, he reached out to touch some of the stray papers. There were letters with illustrations. A bright red apple on one. A bear in the next. And then, a likeness of one of the cats. His fingers shook as he brushed his hand against them. He did not realized his hand was bloodied until it dripped all over the pages.

He shuddered with a memory—a recent one, this time, of a heart in his palm beating wildly as he crushed it.

Fenris thought of Anders as he had been the past few weeks, of him crumpled on the floor of Hawke’s room, of the fog warriors lying in pools of their blood. Fenris was sick—sick—sick—

In a single gesture, he gripped the desk, and flung it at the wall. The pages, the work he had done over the past few days scattered. And then, numbly, he was tearing everything in the room apart. Every inch he had restored himself, every new piece of furniture he had selected, everything Anders had touched.

Maybe, just maybe, when he was done, the place would be livable again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really did start this fic with the intention of making it funny. Honest. Sorry for the, er, sombre tone it's taken and some of the character nastiness. Most of the nastiest lines are adapted from party banter, alas... Anyway, update should be on Sunday. 
> 
> Next chapter: recovery, breathing, and... possibly more plot. If I stay on track.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Merrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this is coming a biiiit later than I promised, but hey! It's edited this time! Posting it in a rush right before I head off to work.

He felt the healing magic before he saw it. Clumsy, harsh—entirely wrong, like someone was trying to stitch up a broken bone. Still, it pulled at him, filling him with enough energy to stay present instead of slipping off into oblivion.

“He still has a pulse. We need to get him breathing again. I—shit.”

He felt some kind of pain in his chest, and something thudding against it, provoking it. But he couldn’t respond.  The world was heavy, intolerably heavy, and it hurt. He was sinking into it, into darkness and the absence of pain, the layers of heavy murk settling over him.

“Shit.  _ Shit.  _ I don’t… I can’t… Merrill, get over here.”

“I… Hawke, I really can’t heal.” The speaker’s voice was cracking. “I’ve tried. I never could. Marethari taught me for ten years and I never showed any talent. One time when I tried I blew up someone’s—”

“Merrill.” The voice was cold, cutting the other one off. “You know how to summon and bind a demon.”

He heard some sort of objection from far in the background, something about blood magic and spirits and  _ wrong.  _ But it became all too hazy. All he could focus on was that harsh voice, the one with intense strength.

“Spirits are fundamentally the same as demons, aren’t they? And his soul is tied to a spirit, right? Summon him. Bind him. Do  _ not  _ let him leave this world.”

And that was the last thing he heard before everything melted into one incoherent blur. But then, he heard someone draw a knife and felt cool steel set against his skin. His eyes shot open.

Hawke. Her jaw was set grimly, her eyes focused on him. His chest seared with unbearable pain. Before he could even make sense of what had happened, he was overwhelmed with anger.

“Do not touch us with your blood magic!” He found himself snarling, nearly roaring. She would deprive them of his will, force him to bend to her will. It was wrong, foul,  _ unjust— _

“We are trying to keep you alive.” That was not Hawke. It was another standing next to her—Merrill. “We were just thinking of how to hold you here until we find a way to heal you. Please—please don’t be angry.”

It was hard to understand. The room swam with too much sound, and even the smallest noises scratched at his mind. There was too much movement, too much light. His eyes couldn’t follow it all. And it was hard to not be angry when everything hurt so much. “I will not die. I am not of mortal make.”

“Oh. Good for you then.” That was—Isabela. She was standing a bit away in the corner. “Will  _ Anders  _ die, though? We’d really not like to lose our healer and have to watch a spirit walking around in his corpse.”

“I—” He blinked, trying to understand. “I am…?”

He felt himself lurch, hissing again at the pain in his chest.

He was not Anders.

“Anders will not die,” he assured. “I will not allow it.”

When Anders opened his eyes, it was as though no time had passed between then and now—none at all. The lyrium filled room in Hawke’s estate seemed like a dream he’d just woken up from.

He was lying in a bed with silken sheets, the room lit with sunny light streaming through the window. He found he couldn’t lift his head, or move his fingers much. He could still feel a pain in his chest, settling down upon him like a heavy weight even if it had lessened. After a few moments, he could recognize one of the extra rooms in Hawke’s estate.

“Hawke?” he tried to call, but his voice was weak, hardly audible.

No answer. He stirred, and tried to get up, only to feel an energetic bolt of worry and disapproval in his mind. Justice, perhaps. Or his own self-preservation kicking in.

“Not feeling like getting up, Justice?” he asked. “That’s a first.”

But Justice, of course, did not answer. He never had after they joined, save for… what had just happened in the Fade. Likely, they would never speak again. The loneliness of it gripped him.

“Someone,” he said, raising his voice as much as he could. “Is someone there? Please talk to me.”

There was no one. He closed his eyes, and tried to will himself back to sleep. It worked eventually, leaving him in dreams of dark enclosed spaces where he called out and no one answered. A distant thought of Fenris floated through his mind, treating him to a flawless dream reconstruction of every inch of Fenris’s face the moment he had looked into Anders’s eyes and crushed his heart.

\--

“Well,” Isabela said. She was drenched with nervous sweat, her hair heavy with it, but she still managed something like a relaxed swagger. “That went just swimmingly, didn’t it?”

“A perfectly executed plan if I ever saw one,” Varric said. “No hitches at all.”

“Is this really the time for levity?” Aveline growled. “After all you—I swear, you two will give me a heart condition.”

“Heh,” Varric said. “Heart condition, you say.”

The thinness in Varric’s voice gave him away—he was concerned, he cared. Merrill could see it, at least. She could see the pain in Isabela’s eyes, too, the way she collapsed exhaustedly against the wall even as she did her best to make herself seem unconcerned and unfazed. They cared—both of them cared.

Aveline, perhaps, could not see it. So she growled at them. But the growling didn’t last long, because soon Hawke was rising from where she had sat, squinting as though she’d just developed an all-new headache.

“Fenris,” she said.

“… yes?” Isabela said. “You’re going to have to clarify.”

“We can’t leave him alone,” she said. “That monster—the  _ second  _ it realizes there’s no one else around to fight with him…”

“Shit,” Varric said.

Hawke’s brow furrowed. “I…” she frowned. “I’ll go talk to him. Aveline, come with me. Bring your sword.”

\--

The rest of them stayed, taking turns to check on Anders and see how he was doing. Merrill was the one who eventually found him awake, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“You’re awake,” she said. “Oh thank goodness.”

When Anders turned to look at her, his eyes were heavy and dull and every line on his face seemed to have deepened and darkened overnight. She saw every muscle in his face tighten as their eyes met, and she swallowed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. She gestured at her own chest. “Is the—is it, erm?”

He took a moment. “It hurts,” he said. “But I’ll live.”

“Oh, oh that’s good,” Merrill said. “I think Orana’s been making some food. We should get something in your stomach now. You should be able to keep food down, right? Oh, Isabela and Varric are here. They’ll want to—”

“No!”

The loudness of it startled Merrill from where she was reaching to go back into the hallway. Anders was staring at her, absolutely pained.

“I don’t want to see them,” he said. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Alright, then…”

Merrill fidgeted a moment, and then sat down on one of the chairs. She watched as Anders’s lips pursed at the motion.

“I don’t want to talk to them,” he said. “What makes you think I want to talk to  _ you?” _

Merrill stiffened. “I…”

“You could have told us,” he said. “You could have told us, but instead you decided to let us believe all that mabari shit and laugh in our faces.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” she said. “I thought… you both seemed so happy.”

“Happy?” he barked. “ _ Happy?  _ That’s your excuse? As though you weren’t giggling at what fools we were making of ourselves? Well, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve all laughed at the miserable sewer apostate! I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve never been more than a joke.”

While Anders had slept, Isabela had wiped the sweat off his brow and Varric had talked to him with soothing, encouraging words.

Merrill remembered that, and felt her throat dry. “We don’t… they don’t…”

“Save it.” Anders sounded hoarse, and his face pulling into a pained frown. “I don’t want to hear it. Get out.”

“I…”

He was probably trying to sound angry or demanding, but instead he sounded like he was about to cry.

“Get. Out,” he repeated.

Merrill swallowed. “Alright.”

She got up. Right before she left, she turned back one more time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He didn’t answer, and she left. She slouched down on one of the couches next to Isabela, who took one look at her face and threw an arm around her.

“Hey, kitten,” she said. “You look terrible. Don’t beat yourself up, alright?”

It was easy to just fall into her. She sank into Isabela’s arms and let her warmth rush over her. She could forget, like this. She could relax and shut everything out.

A few hours later, Varric came down and told them Anders was gone—apparently escaped through the back passage to Darktown before anyone could see him.

\--

Merrill wasn’t sure what she expected when she came back to Fenris’s mansion. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t the mess she saw. The furniture had been shattered into pieces. Shelves had been knocked over. The curtains had been torn down and left in a heap. There was at least one large scratch against the wall, causing the new wallpaper to flop down. She scanned the area and took a deep breath.

“Fenris?” she asked. “…Hawke?”

There was no answer. She stepped forward, and saw a shadow dart around the corner. She gripped her staff, and then relaxed. It was just one of the kittens from before. She crouched.

“Hello there,” she said. “Where did your mother go?”

She reached out her hand. The tiny thing mewled and trotted to her quickly, rubbing its head against her hand. She stroked it until it jumped away and skittered off—and Merrill realized she’d been crouching with her back to the stairs.

“What are you doing here?”

Merrill did not let herself be afraid. She stood slowly and turned around. Fenris stood at the top of the stairs, body half covered by the banister.

“Hawke was here with Aveline,” Merrill said. “Did they leave?”

She saw a jerk of Fenris’s head. It might have been the beginning of a nod, but Fenris quickly stopped.

“I asked what you are doing here,” he repeated.

“I wanted…” Merrill frowned. “I wanted to apologize. And… to see if you were alright.”

She heard him suck in a particularly heavy breath.

“And…” she asked. “Are you?”

He stood. Even with the distance between them, she could see his face contort with rage.

“Am I alright?” he asked. “Am I alright—when I was cursed again by dark magic? When I—when I was stripped of my very self? When all my  _ friends  _ deceived me for cheap laughs?”

She didn’t respond, waiting. Eventually, he stepped forward. There was a harshness to his step, and the second he started down the stairs she noticed a bottle in one of his hands. She pressed her lips together.

“Am I alright?” he was hissing. “When yesterday I thought I had—everything—and now…?”

His face crumpled pitifully. He was at the end of the stairs, and now he swayed. Merrill rushed forward, ready to catch him, but he spat at her.

“Do not  _ touch me!”  _ he roared. “I’ll tear out  _ your  _ heart too, blood mage!”

Merrill flinched. “You won’t,” she said firmly.

“I will,” he said. “I won’t even think about it. I never—I never did.”

He was breathing heavily, staring right at her as his face crumpled into absolute anguish again. He was falling back then, sitting on the stairs.

“I didn’t want to,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean… I never wanted to.”

“Oh Fenris,” she said. “You’ve been—you need rest. And water. Please… you need to take care of yourself. I know we’ve all been thoughtless recently, but none of us want you to suffer.”

He didn’t seem to be registering what she was saying. Not really. He just looked at her, glassy, and then he closed his eyes.

“What… happened to him?” he asked.

“Hm?” Merrill furrowed her brow.

“I didn’t ask Hawke. I…” Again, that anguished expression crossed his face. “I didn’t want to… but I need to know.”

“I don’t understand,” Merrill said. “Him? Do you mean…”

Fenris waited, blinking. But before Merrill could piece together what he was trying to say, there was a noise at the door--a loud creaking as it opened. She looked, and saw Anders in the doorway. Hunched and ragged, practically cringing when he saw them.

She jumped, too surprised to watch and see Fenris’s reaction.

“Lovely what you’ve done with the place,” Anders drawled, a hard note in his voice. “I really think the destroyed new furniture adds a finish to it. Oh… Merrill.”

He said her name like she was some particularly disgusting bug he’d found under a rock. “Anders,” she said. “You should be resting.”

“I  _ should  _ be getting my things back,” he replied. “Which is what I am doing. Now.”

Fenris was strangely quiet. Merrill turned to look at him, and his head was down, body tense.

“You’ve really destroyed everything here, haven’t you?” Anders asked. “And you’ve drunk yourself senseless. Predictable, I suppose.”

Fenris’s head jerked up. Merrill found herself stepping slowly back, glancing between the two of them. Anders’s arms were folded, eyes furious, jaw clenched shut. Fenris’s expression was… glazed. Unreadable. Perhaps he didn’t quite believe Anders was there.

“What’s the matter, Fenris?” Anders asked. “Disappointed to see me?”

Fenris twitched. “Of course you’d think that,” he replied thickly. “Since you think me more wild dog than man.”

“As though you haven’t given me a good reason to think that.”

Merrill winced. “Anders…”

Fenris cut her off with incoherent snarling. “And of course, _ you _ came back,” he managed finally. “Like a cockroach.”

Anders just stared at him for a while, jaw still clenched. Merrill saw a flash of pain, and then his expression hardened.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said. “There’s no sense in this—stay out of my way. I’ll collect my things and the cats, and leave.”

“No.”

Merrill looked between the two of them again.

“Excuse me?” Anders said.

“I said, no.”

“You won’t let me get my potions? My clothes?” Anders asked flatly.

“Maybe,” Merrill tried to interject, “Maybe this can wait for another time, Anders.”

“Oh no,” Anders said. “I refuse to accommodate his stubbornness. Not today. Not after what he did. The  _ least  _ you can do, you blighted elf, is let me get my things so I can leave and happily never have anything to do with you again!”

The last part was directed at Fenris. But once again, his expression was impossible to read. Tight, tense—and nothing.

“Get your things,” he rasped. “The cats stay.”

Anders narrowed his eyes. “For now.”

They didn’t say another word to each other throughout the process. In fact, they didn’t even look at each other. Fenris stayed curled up where he was, closing his eyes. Anders kept his eyes on his task, never letting them stray. As he worked, Merrill inched closer, eventually reaching out a hand to help only for Anders to jerk the bag he was filling away from her.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“But—”

“Let me do what I need to in peace,” he said, eyes flashing.

She shrank back, and let him continue. On the stairs Fenris seemed to have already passed out from intoxication, his head leaning against the bannister. Hesitantly, she approached, tested to see if he was awake, and moved him to one of the intact couches so he could lay flat. Anders pointedly ignored all of it, and in a few minutes left without looking back at either of them.

\--

At her home in Lowtown, the hours seemed to slip uselessly away. The Eluvian stared at her from the corner, beckoning, but she had worked herself sick on it. She put away all her research on it for the night, and closed her eyes.

In the dark, it was easy to ruminate over all the rejections, all the moments when she could feel them deriding her mousy little self. So she opened her eyes, and lit a candle.

No more Eluvian work. Not for tonight, at least. But something practical. She pulled down the books she’d gotten from Anders and Fenris before—the tomes of blood magic, likely belonging to Fenris’s old master—and started to flip through the pages.

Not halfway in, she saw it. A glyph, one with intricate designs that spoke of a spell she could not entirely read. One that spoke of spirits, binding—and looked exactly like the one she had seen on that  _ lady’s  _ back a while ago.

If she could use her magic, her knowledge of blood magic to combat this creature…

Merrill leaned forward, and started reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the great comments last chapter! It keeps me going guys. I will upload the tumblr version a bit later today, as I am running out of time now. Hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> Next Chapter: you didn't really expect our friendly neighborhood "zombie mage" to be gone much longer now, did you?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually... did not get to the plotty bits this chapter, like I planned. Oops? Instead have a lot of moping and a scene with cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhrhghghgghg this weekend was terrible my friends. Terrible. Also, I think I have updated more frequently on Monday now then I ever have on Sunday. In all fairness, this chapter needed a lot of editing. Also, the chapter count has gone up because I keep delaying the plot with filler. Yayyy me.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter! The original draft had someone's throat getting cut.

The smell of Darktown was unbearable. The thick air of the place filled up Anders’ nose and lungs, making him wheeze and choke; pure suffocation after weeks of breathing fresh air. That he was already famished and lightheaded before stepping foot here didn’t help.

It was pitch black when he got back to the clinic. He threw his things down and collapsed on a cot. He could feel his heart thrumming delicately as he drifted off.

When he woke and lit the torches, the clinic was… not entirely as he expected. There wasn’t a new level of grime and dust over everything, as would befit a Darktown hovel that had been left unattended so long. Neither was it cleaned, exactly. Everything was disordered as though it had been used recently. As though last night he’d been tending to patients and had simply passed out before remembering to straighten everything up. As though he’d never left, and was simply waking up from a dream.

He wasn’t sure which seemed more dreamlike, now--the past few weeks of thinking he was in love, or this reality that he was just now re-adjusting to.

Anders felt his chest ache, and hoped it wasn’t some kind of permanent heart damage.

He got to work putting everything in order, though it seemee his memories were still hazy. He kept stumbling upon objects that seemed both familiar yet unfamiliar: glass bottles that he knew had some purpose he couldn’t quite remember, boxes of herbs that he couldn’t recognize, scattered pages of a manuscript—

_ Oh. _

He knelt down and picked up his manifesto, narrowing his eyes to read it. It was his. He could recognize that now. And yet, the individual words or phrases seemed foreign to him. He mumbled a few out, trying to parse what order the pages went in, only to remember a wicked glint in Isabela’s eyes and a sardonic smirk Varric hid behind his fist.

He nearly tore through the parchment, he gripped it so tightly.

There was a knock. Before he could answer, the door burst open. He turned, and saw a man with a child, the former wild-eyed and the latter unconscious.

“Healer!” the man said. “Thank the Maker. They said you were gone, but my boy—”

The anger that flared up had Anders pale and shaking. How dare they—how dare  _ anyone  _ come to him now? Couldn’t they see he didn’t want to deal with them? That he didn’t have any more of himself to give right now? That he was tired—so, so tired…?

“Please,” the man was saying. “I don’t know where else to go.”

The anger departed. He rose, realizing that his eyes were stinging. He rubbed at them, wiping away tears that hadn’t yet fallen. He didn’t feel like the Darktown Healer, now. But he didn’t feel like that idiot who had shacked up with Fenris and adopted several cats, either. And beneath it all—beneath all the exhaustion and anger and bitterness—he knew he didn’t want to let anyone suffer.  And work would dull the pain.

It always had before, hadn’t it?

“Get him to the table,” Anders said, wearily. “I’ll see what I can do. And—go tell the others the lantern is lit.”

\--

Isabela walked into the clinic with her usual swagger. Anders shriveled at the sight of her, unsure how much of what he was feeling was anger, and how much was intense shame. Either way, he turned back to his work, hoping she’d get bored and leave before she said whatever it was she came to say.

The word of his return had spread quickly, and he already had several people to heal while Isabela leaned quietly against the wall, watching. When everyone was gone, she finally caught his gaze and quirked her eyebrows.

“Nose back to the grindstone already, I see.”

He pursed his lips.

“You know,” she continued. “Hawke would have let you rest up at her place for a few days. Longer, even. Maker knows you need it.”

“I don’t,” he said, voice clipped.

“You eaten yet?” she asked. “Had any water? Varric’s got a room, a bath, and a free meal or two ready for you at the Hanged Man. The place is still a bit of a mess, but… he thought you might need it.”

It was hard to look her in the face. Everything inside him had frozen up. Still, he managed it, and found her expression still lit with an easy-going smile. “What do you want, Isabela?” he asked.

“Well,” she said. “Straight to the point, then? I’m sorry. Varric’s sorry. Merrill’s sorry. She told me you were… upset.”

“Upset,” Anders repeated drily.

“So! That’s that,” Isabela said. “No harm intended.”

Anders took a deep breath. “And you think that… fixes it?”

Isabela shrugged. “What would fix it? Getting on my knees to grovel and beg? Shouting at me for a while?” she sighed. “Anyway, you should come over. You look like you could really use that free meal and a drink. Maybe a stiff one, if you’re still up for all that with…”

“Don’t,” Anders said, voice thick, “act like you’re so concerned.”

Isabela threw up her hands. “You think I’m not?”

He could feel anger grip him like cold fire. “You made a mockery out of me,” he said. “You were laughing at my beliefs—at everything I’ve ever tried to accomplish in this damn city!”

“Well, you did that yourself,” Isabela pointed out. “I didn’t  _ order  _ you to do anything. I just thought it was funny.”

“You—” he fumed. “I only did it because—”

He could feel something sizzling underneath his skin, flashing white-hot behind his eyes.

“Hey,” Isabela’s voice turned consoling. “Hey it’s—shit, I really didn’t come here to provoke you. Just… calm down and let’s head out. I really don’t think this is a good place for you to hole up, especially not right now, after everything.”

He took in a deep, long breath. “I don’t want to go,” he said.

Isabela huffed. “Knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she mumbled. “Look, I know the whole… mage thing and healer thing is important to you. But don’t you think—”

“No,” he said.

“You haven’t let me finish,” she told him. “Making all this your entire life, letting it suck up every last ounce of joy—I mean, look at how happy you were before you remembered all this! Do you really think it’s a good idea to sulk around in this filth and play the martyr?”

He felt the surge of anger again. He really, really did not want to do this now. Why did Isabela have to be here—damn her concern, he wanted to be alone! He couldn’t relax with them all, not now, not when—

“Anders doesn’t want to talk to you.”

It was strange to suddenly realize he wasn’t talking, that this wasn’t his voice coming out. Justice didn’t shout, but his voice filled the room so that Anders could practically feel the tremors.

Strangely, this time, Justice being in control didn’t make him afraid.

“Fuck,” Isabela said, immediately backing away and putting her hands up. The flash of fear in her eyes hurt.

Anders could feel Justice withdrawing, his light dimming just slightly. “He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to go with you,” Justice said. “He feels distressed by your deception and angered that you now speak of his welfare while belittling what he works for. It is upsetting.”

Isabela folded her arms. “And he can’t speak for himself?”

“He did. He told you he doesn’t want to leave,” Justice said, and Anders could feel another flash. “You are not respecting his wishes.”

Isabela’s expression became stony. Anders squirmed, wanting to say something for himself, and in a moment the light filtered away and he found himself in his own body again.

“Please,” he said. “I need to be alone.”

It wasn’t true. He needed very, very much to  _ not _ be alone.  But at the same time—he didn’t want to face the others. She looked at him, and then sighed.

“Alright,” she said. “Just—learn to take a break now and then? Don’t drive yourself into the ground? Come up for fresh air sometimes?”

He didn’t say anything. Isabela shrugged and left. Anders watched her slip quietly into the night, and closed the door behind her.

He was glad she had left, but also… the clinic seemed too quiet and empty now. He thought about what she’d offered, about a good meal at the Hanged Man with her and Varric and Hawke. A soft bed, like he’d slept in past few weeks. Clean water. People who might think he was a laughable fool but who would still at least fill the silence with their laughter.

The crushing he suddenly felt in his chest made him collapse on one of the cots, again. This overwhelming feeling—guilt. Terrible, unrelenting guilt. But what did he have to feel guilty for? Unless…

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, Justice. It’s not your fault.”

The feeling latched onto him. He closed his eyes. Images of the Hanged Man flashed behind his eyes. If he didn’t want to be alone, then perhaps he really should—

He shook his head. “No,” he said, certain that it was the spirit speaking to him once again. He couldn’t do that. Not so soon after everything. Abruptly the feeling of guilt shrank—not gone, never gone, but lessening. Anders let himself breathe, noticing that his heart still hurt and the clinic was still too quiet and empty.

Adjusting to the reality that he was unloved, uncared for, and had nothing—that was going to be a challenge.

“I wish I could talk to you,” he said. He had never spoken to Justice aloud like he had now, worried about how crazy it might seem to anyone happening by. Now, though, he couldn’t help it. “I wish…”

But there was no answer except a sudden new pain in the chest. Anders closed his eyes, and resolved to sleep it off.

The next morning, he gathered up everything of his that he’d gotten from Fenris’s mansion, and sold it at the market.

\--

It was hard to look at the damage he had done with clear eyes, Fenris found. Perhaps he had thought there would be some satisfaction in tearing apart all the physical evidence of his foolishness, but there was none.

At least there was some comfort in finding what had remained.

The healing salve Anders had made for him was still intact, carefully re-arranged on a shelf. He had not destroyed it in his rage, and Anders seemed to have left it—intentionally, perhaps.  Something burned deep inside him to realize this. Still, he applied it, and breathed easier as the pain melted away.

He sank in a chair and closed his eyes, only for more images to surface. A pair of cold blue eyes, a sneer, a glyph glowing before him. Some barked orders, the words “memory spell” and “lyrium” mixed among them.

But he jolted up. He didn’t want to remember more now. Not now, not like this. He’d drunk himself into oblivion last night to stop that--because it all came back too fast. Every time a new memory surfaced he could have sworn he could feel the loathsome touch of Anders’s--that  _ demon’s _ essence crawling under his skin, feeding the memories until they got strong enough to claw at the back of his skull.

He stood up, and paced.

He found a book on the floor, spine upward. He’d tripped over it when he had woken up on the couch hungover and dazed. He ran his hand along the cover, pondering for a moment before realizing what it was.

The book… that book Anders had been reading on the road, when they had met. It pulled memories back, now--dreamlike thoughts of being in a cave on the run with Anders, feeling the healing magic wash all over him as Anders read the story aloud to him—a silly tale of two people who mistook hate for love, or the other way around.

He must have thrown it across the room, yesterday. But he didn’t now. He touched the cover instead. He couldn’t tell what the feeling was, welling up inside him. Something like hate. Something like shame. Something like regret.

Loud mewling interrupted his thoughts. The cats, he realized, had not been fed.

They shrank away from him when he entered the room. They must have been cowering because of his display last night. The mother cat slunk out of the shadows the moment Fenris got close to one of the kittens, growling deeply even as she seemed hesitant to approach.

He refilled their bowls, and left them alone. 

He would have slept shortly afterward were it not for the sudden wind that seemed to knock at every door. The sounds made him whirl, made thoughts of a monster with torn flesh and long, clawlike hands reaching for him. Finally, realizing that he wouldn’t prepare himself by pacing around all night, he laid down and screwed his eyes shut.

\--

Fenris didn’t sleep. 

He would have, but once again the disconnected sounds and images of the past clawed at him. He could scarcely make more sense of them than he had in the Fade. There were faces, but no names. Events, but not in order. And most were of horror--of watching magister’s cut the throats of children while he did nothing, of seeing limp bodies piled upon each other. He could feel something around his throat at times tightening-tightening…

He did not know his hand had gone limp and fallen off the surface he was sleeping on, but he abruptly felt something tickling his fingers. Wincing, he drew his hand back and looked, only to see a pair of reflective eyes staring up at him.

One of the kittens. It mewled, and pawed at the couch. Hesitantly, he reached out his hand again. He didn’t pet it, but it rubbed against his hand anyway.

He wasn’t like Anders. He didn’t have any cooing words for it. But he lifted it up as gently as he could, and felt its purr. It squirmed, out of his grasp, and curled into his lap.

The other kittens came afterward. They weren’t so bold, but they sniffed at him, and he reached to stroke their heads.

He didn’t notice the mother at first. He didn’t get to see her creep up, but just saw her shadowy form in the darkness. Her eyes did not shine in the dark like the kittens’ but she watched nonetheless. She didn’t offer even a faint growl though, but hobbled up and sniffed him. As though coming to a conclusion, she curled up close to his feet.

Fenris let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes. This time, he could feel a faint stinging under his eyelids.

The memories came, again. This time, however, he faced them with calm. 

\--

When Hawke came in, the cats had dispersed. She found him alone on the couch, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. She folded her arms.

“Something wrong with your bed?” she asked.

The bed was a space he had shared with Anders, that was what--but he didn’t tell her that. Instead, he grunted and she sighed.

“Are you ready to talk, now?” she asked brusquely.

He sat up, trying to recall their last meeting. He had already started on a bottle by then, and been enraged to see her at all. She’d stared at him impassively as he had raged—never afraid, never troubled. But then, she never was, not by anything he did.

“And what,” he asked, venom creeping into his voice, “do you want to say?”

She sat down, and handed him a bottle. He frowned at it, wondering why she would be offering him more alcohol at this time—but the moment he sipped it he realized it was a hangover remedy.

“Look,” she said. “That whole mess… that was my mistake. I don’t have an excuse.”

“Can you at least say why you didn’t… tell us? Before the ritual?”

She shrugged, stiffly. “I felt… awkward, whenever I thought of explaining it.  And it didn’t seem to be doing much harm, at first. I preferred to take action.”

Fenris closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. It was a flimsy excuse, and it gave him a headache to wrap his mind around how much trouble such a simple thing had caused him. “I don’t feel any better, hearing that.”

Hawke shrugged again. “I’m not telling you to forgive and forget. I’m asking you to work with me until we’ve resolved this threat—whatever that thing after you is, it has to be taken down. And to do it, we’re going to need all the help we can get.” Her look soured. “So could you possibly allow Aveline and some others to stick around the mansion with you until we’ve resolved it?”

Fenris felt his lips purse. “Aveline, yes,” he said. “You, yes. Anyone else from out group… I would feel ‘awkward.’ Find someone else, if you feel so inclined.”

Hawke nodded. “I understand.”

At least, he realized, Hawke had never had any glee to see him acting so foolishly. Neither had Aveline. He felt a degree of trust to them, for it. It was shaky, but it was there.

“I remembered,” he said. “How I lost my memories. This recent time, that is.”

He closed his eyes, summoning up everything he had recalled last night. He could hear the shout of slavers sent to recapture him, him cutting them down only to find himself struck from behind and held with a paralysis glyph. He remembered struggling furiously at it as she came into view—pale, smooth skin and a sneer on her face.

_ Restrain him. We will perform the memory spell now. _

“Hadriana,” he said, opening his eyes.

“Is that… the creature?” Hawke asked.

“No. I do not think so,” he said. “The creature is… taller. Its grasp of magic is not very sophisticated. Hadriana was my—was Danarius’s apprentice.”

Hounding his sleep. Starving him. Tormenting him in every little way she could without leaving a mark, since Danarius wanted—but he shoved all those thoughts down.

“The monster. It is likely something she has summoned to do her will,” he said. “If we kill Hadriana…”

“…Then the monster goes down, too,” Hawke finished. “Or, likely enough.”

Fenris swallowed, pulling up all he could from the recesses of his memory. “I know where she is hiding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos! You're all amazing.
> 
> Next chapter: Someone really does get their throat cut.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian arrives 1 act late with Starbucks. Someone gets their throat cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, sorry for the one week hiatus. I needed the time to work on some original writing. I announced it on my tumblr but for everyone who didn't check... sorry. It shouldn't happen again.
> 
> Anyway, have some action.

The night was long, and by the end of it Anders was ready to snap his staff in two out of sheer frustration.

When his thoughts had turned to his mage underground contacts, he’d filled with cold dread. In his experience with the underground, a single day could mean life or death. Just going to sleep might mean waking up to see a reliable contact was now a broken body in the gutters of Lowtown, or a branded face paraded through the Gallows in front of the other mages.

A single day could mean life or death, and he’d been gone for  _ weeks _ .

When he reached the clinic, he leaned against the door for a moment, digging his fingers into his head. Before the brand had been used on him, he’d known the name of every mage he’d broken out, every one he’d had hidden around Kirkwall as he’d tried to arrange safe passage for them out of the city. Now, he could only recall faces. Thin, dirtied faces looking to him with terror as he’d assured them he’d be back in just a few days, that he’d bring food….

He was ready to collapse completely when he heard a voice coming from within the clinic.

“Healer? Messere Anders?”

He jumped. But when the clinic door creaked open, the face that popped out was familiar—a contact. One of the Ferelden refugees who’d taken to running errands for the underground, keeping things connected.

“You—” try as he might, he couldn’t remember the young person’s name. “You’re alright? You’re safe?”

The boy’s lips pursed, and he nodded sharply. “I-I am.”

“And the others?” Anders asked.

“They’re… Healer, you should come inside.”

He nearly wept in relief during the conversation that followed. Every mage he’d been hiding had gotten away, boarded on ships to Nevarra or Rivain—every contact whose home he’d found barred or vandalized was alive, if a bit cowed after the recent shakedown on the underground.

“It was those friends of yours, Messere,” the young man said. “They arranged it all.”

“My…?”

“That Hightown lady and the pirate,” he said. “They were running all around this last week, finding everybody. Said another friend of theirs was setting up the transportation for the mages…”

Anders stared at the boy for a moment, blinking. And then, he recalled the state his clinic had been in when he first entered, how every inch of it spoke of recent use. When it all hit him, Anders buried his face in his hands, and let out a long sob of something like relief.

\--

The next morning, when he found Hawke in his clinic, arms folded and brow furrowed, he wasn’t as angry as he thought he’d be.

“Hawke,” he said.

“Anders.” Her voice was clipped, uncertain.

She didn’t really seem to know what she wanted to say. She pursed her lips, and looked away, and when she finally spoke, he could tell she was making an effort to sound less harsh than usual.

“Look,” she said. “You can’t stay here.”

That wasn’t what he expected.

“They captured you just weeks ago,” she said. “I don’t know what the fuck they did, but—”

“The brand,” he supplied. “It didn’t work because of Justice. But… they kept trying until it was bound to damage something.

She pulled a frown. “You can’t stay here,” she repeated. “And you can’t keep blowing off Varric and Isabela.”

He felt himself resisting. “Hawke…”

“The Templars will find you again,” she said. “You need people who you can contact  _ immediately _ . Who’ll be close, on guard, and ready to come to your aid at a moment’s notice. You can’t afford isolation. Not now.”

“But they—”

“Stay at my estate,” she said. “Varric and Isabela agreed to stay there until things quiet down, so that you’ll have someone close to help you should the need arise. Take it as an opportunity to sort out your issues with them.”

Anders felt the fury rise in his gut. “No,” he said. “There’s work to be done here.”

She tilted her head downward a little, eyes narrowing. He saw her jaw grind. But instead of saying anything, she pulled some string out for around her neck—a key on a leather string. She threw it at him, and he fumbled to catch it.

“There,” she said. “The key to my estate. You know the Darktown entrance. Use it when you decide to think like a functional adult.”

Anders grasped the key and stared at her, bristling. “Can you do a single thing without acting like I’m garbage? Because that’s what I  _ really _ need right now. More verbal abuse.”

Surprisingly, a bit of remorse flashed across Hawke’s face. “I—” she started, and then massaged her forehead. “I apologize.”

This time, Anders folded his arms, and felt his face pinch up.

“I won’t be in. Not for a while,” Hawke said. “I’m leaving the city for a bit. Don’t use me as an excuse to stay away.”

She turned and left without another word.

Later, thinking about Hawke and Isabela helping the mages when he couldn’t, he found himself relenting, and turning his feet towards the closest entrance to Hawke’s estate.

\--

The Holding Caves were as he remembered, and yet unreal. It was as though Fenris was traversing through the pathways of another life entirely. It loomed like a shadow of the Fade before him, ready to swallow them all whole.

Hawke. Aveline. And Sebastian—a chantry brother Hawke had recruited while he had been out of the city and had brought along solely because Fenris had said he did not want to work with any of the others. Fenris did not doubt their combined abilities, and yet he wondered if they would be able to face whatever was in there.

“Our biggest advantage is the element of surprise,” Hawke said. “They don’t know we’re coming. Use that. Use stealth.”

Unfortunately, a glowing elf, a hulking guardswoman, a force mage, and a man dressed in shining white armor turned out to not be the stealthiest party. They were surrounded in seconds, by slavers and summoned shades alike, barely able to breathe with all the enemies around them.

“Fuck,” Hawke hissed once they had cleared the first room. She was already hissing from a particularly harsh blow to the side she’d taken. “This would be easier if we had a healer.”

Perhaps it was not meant to be a pointed comment directed at him, but Fenris bristled. Before he could say anything though, Sebastian was piping up.

“There are some skilled healers at the Gallows,” he said. “Perhaps if I put in a word with Elthina, we could get one to accompany us on any future ventures.”

Hawke twitched. “Right.” Her voice was cold. “Drag an untested civilian out into battle, force them to do dangerous work without being paid.”

“It wouldn’t be forcing them,” Sebastian said patiently. “I’m sure some of them would relish a chance to leave the Gallows for a bit. And it’s the mages’ duty to serve—think of it as labor that pays for their lodging. The Chantry does have to pay to house and feed them, after all.”

To Hawke’s credit, she didn’t even raise an eyebrow at that, even if Fenris could almost feel the cold rage emanating from her body. In the background, Aveline slowly dragged a hand across her face.

“You… haven’t known Hawke long, have you?” Fenris asked.

“No?” Sebastian blinked wide, innocent eyes. “What? Did I miss something?”

Fenris suddenly had thoughts of what an angry tirade this would provoke in the right company. He thought of a mage who would shout himself purple in the face at hearing this, who would pile on argument after unwanted argument. He could practically hear them in his head right now.

_ No mage in the Gallows has the standing to risk the wrath of a Grand Cleric by refusing her—as such, any request they would supposedly agree to is, to some extent, coerced, since the relationship between mages and the Chantry is inherently coercive…. _

_ Mages are kept in the Gallows against their wills, imprisoned unjustly. Therefore, they do not owe the Chantry any labor. And as for the alleged duty of mages to serve… _

But, Fenris realized abruptly, Anders was not here. And these were technically not things he had ever heard Anders say. Which meant they were arguments Fenris was thinking up entirely on his own.

Fenris scowled, his mood worsening.

“Do you not see my staff?” Hawke asked, turning to Sebastian. “Were the blasts of force magic not conspicuous enough? Have you somehow not realized I’m an apostate, and that I’m not going to believe any tripe about mages needing to serve noble pricks like you?”

Sebastian seemed only a little ruffled. “It’s not about nobility. The Maker…”

“Let’s not get into it,” Aveline cut in. “If you carry on like this, you’re going to give me flashbacks. The worst kind of flashbacks.”

She shot a look at Fenris, and Fenris felt his shoulders tense a little as he caught her meaning.

“…Agreed,” he mumbled.

Hawke flashed them both a look, and then headed for the door. She tried to pull it open, only for it to be locked.

“Ah,” Sebastian said, brightening. “I know a thing or two about locks. Let me…”

But before he could even finish, Hawke exploded the door instead.

\--

Fenris kept looking in all the corners, waiting to be ambushed by the monster that had haunted his steps. When it didn’t show itself, he started to grow nervous. He found himself jumping at every shadow, gripping his sword until his knuckles ached. Every room seemed to be another near death for him, another stroke of the sword that only barely missed his neck.

He would not die here. He would not.

When they stumbled upon the blood sacrifices—bodies of elves freshly cut—the world seemed to spin a little.

“Fenris.” That was Aveline. “Are you alright?”

He turned and found that Aveline had paled at the sight. Sebastian had covered his mouth, looking ready to vomit at the sight of it all. Only Hawke walked through the pools of blood unconcerned. Fenris felt a surge of rage.

“This is what mages always come to, when left unwatched,” he snarled. “Blood magic. Murder. Slavery. They all find ways to justify it.”

He directed it at Hawke, but it provoked no reaction in her. He couldn’t even sense any anger the way he had when Sebastian had been talking earlier.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Fenris spat. “Aren’t you going to defend your mage freedom?”

Hawke’s lip curled. “I don’t argue with raving fools, Fenris,” she said. “I leave that to Anders.”

It was like being slapped.

“Hawke!” Aveline said. “Apologize.”

“If you insist,” Hawke replied. “Sorry, Fenris.”

“You sound so sincere,” he snarled. 

Sebastian raised his hands in a placating gesture, clearly desperately wanting everyone to stop fighting. “Perhaps we should all take a break.”

They did not take a break.

After another spat with Hawke over the slave girl they freed, Fenris decided to keep his mouth shut. His blood was rushing too fast, his head spinning, his eyes darting all around the room before he closed them. He didn't want to converse. He wanted this to be over with already, wanted Hadriana to be dead and that  _ thing  _ buried six feet under so he could go back to his mansion and finally have a decent night’s sleep.

Hawke, after going around and looting all the corpses, seemed to be on the same page. “The thing hasn’t shown up to attack us yet,” she remarked.

“Thing?” Sebastian sounded worried. “What thing?”

“Well,” Aveline said. “If we knew what it was we’d tell you.”

Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling what sounded like a prayer under his breath.

“Let us continue,” Fenris said. “We waste time, dallying like this.”

\--

Hadriana was in the last room, bodies lying at her feet. Their eyes locked, and he noted with grim satisfaction that hers widened fearfully. But the view was quickly obscured by another body coming into view, shielding Hadriana. As is came into view, he heard Sebastian give a horrified gasp.

The creature stood before them, ragged and hunched--but out in the open, where he could see it. And it wove no dark magic around itself to fool him this time, no images of kindly looking old mothers or bright-eyed elf girls.

“There it is,” Hawke said. “The thing we were talking about, Sebastian.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Sebastian practically whimpered.

Fenris dimly hoped for a moment. The other enemies in this place were dead, there was only Hadriana and only a single obstacle in between him and her. As he heard his companions fall into position behind him, he felt his confidence swell, and he gripped his sword.

“ _ Scelerata _ ,” Hadriana commanded, and there was a glow around her, a sickening aura of blood magic. “To me.”

The creature responded, jerking forward like a puppet dragged on a string. 

“Kneel,” Hadriana said.

Fenris opened his mouth, ready to roar that he would never kneel again. But then, he realized the order was not for him.

The creature turned its back to them, dropping on its knees and bowing its head.

“What…” Hawke started.

Hadriana raised a knife, and cut right through its throat. The cry that rang through the cave shook Fenris to the core. The creature gasped, fists clenching, gurgling even as blood spilled out of its throat. The blood rose up to Hadriana’s staff, sinking in and glowing with a powerful aura.

“Useless thing,” Hadriana sneered, casting only a single glance at it. “It couldn’t even bring back a single slave. I suppose it’ll be a sufficient sacrifice, though—don’t you think?”

The thing curled up before her, still on its knees. It let out a noise that sounded uncomfortably like a sob. Humans, elves, animals, even demons—they all sounded strangely similar when they suffered.

“Oh Maker,” Sebastian breathed.

“One less enemy to worry about,” Hawke retorted.

But Hadriana’s magic had never been stronger. She summoned shade after shade, raised every last body in the room. They all charged forward, each unflinching at any blow they took, stronger than the warriors from before and greater in number. And her magic didn’t wane. It was as though the stream of the creature’s blood feeding into her staff supplied her with unlimited mana, and spells that came quicker and faster than any of their attacks.

They were quickly driven back and forced into a corner.

Sebastian and Aveline fell quickly in the flurry of action that followed. Then, right when he thought he had finally gotten close enough to land a single blow on Hadriana, he heard Hawke shouting something at him, warning him—

A knife in his back. Claws digging into his shoulder. The pain screamed in him, and his grip on his sword slackened. Behind him, he could hear pained, rasping breaths.

He had assumed the creature would be out of commission once Hadriana had cut its throat. A mistake.

He managed to turn, and saw the monster—standing again, eyes aflame, jaw unhinged as though in a silent cry. Blood yet dripped from the gaping wound that cut open its neck, and yet it still stood. And had still skewered him.

He was once again too dizzy to make out everything. But he saw a blurred glimpse of Hawke cradling Aveline, Sebastian huddled close. Her magic focused purely on on the woman in her arms, not even sparing him a glance. 

When they retreated, when they left him, it was without a single look. He thought of all the bitter words he had shared with Hawke and could not even say he felt surprised. Instead, he closed his eyes for just a moment, and thought of how many times he’d been through this--how many times this demon had caught up to him.

Perhaps it was his destiny to face this alone. To lose. 

With that thought, he tightened his hold on his sword, and gathered his strength for one last blow. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give me attention. I am dying.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short filler chapter in which the gang comes together by peacefully playing cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st thing: Sorry for the late update.  
> 2rd thing: Long chapter is long.  
> 3rd thing: you know who is amazing and perfect? my girlfriend. Who, btw, edited this entire thing at 2am. It would be a mess otherwise.  
> 4th thing: Hope you all enjoy the chapter! This one's a doozy!

It was hot, hot, hot. His mouth was dry and he could feel sweat beading at the roots of his hair, dripping down his neck. Everything was bright, like he was staring into the sun, the edges of the world around him hazy.

He couldn’t make out where he was, whether it was tile beneath him or wood or muddy soil, nor a single detail on the walls around him, nor whether there were walls at all. He couldn’t see whether he was sitting or standing, whether he was outside or in, whether there was a sky above him or not.

But he saw her.

Her face was clear against the muddied background, the details of her features sharp. He could see every pore on her face, every filament in her green irises, every strand of her red hair.

“Don’t,” she said. “You won’t survive it.”

He felt his mouth open, but his response was lost to him.

“You’re not a warrior,” she was saying. “There are trained fighters a full head taller than you, at least twice your weight in muscle. And mages. _Blood_ mages. You’re not—you can’t—mother will _die_ if she hears of it!”

She looked pained. Young, only thirteen, but already so practical in the ways slaves are, achingly aware of the possibility of death.

“Even if you win,” she told him. “Even if you survive the ritual after, then you won’t get to stay with us. You said we’d stay together no matter what! So what is it? What’s worth leaving us forever?”

He heard his words like he might hear the lines of a player on the stage.

“It won’t be forever.”

Everything blurred. But the next thing he knew he was putting his hands on her shoulders, hearing his own voice again

“No matter what Danarius does to me, no matter what I have to do, or what I have to endure, I will still be mother’s son, and I will be your brother.” The words rang out sharply, as though underneath the layers of the years they had always been there, carved too deeply in his memory to be scrubbed away. “We are family. There’s no magic in the world that can erase that. And I will return—I promise. No matter how long we are separated I will find you and mother again.”

But it didn’t work. His words didn’t reach her.

“It’s for you,” he told her, hoping that would do it. “You and mother. For your freedom.”

Her response was lost in the blur.

“One day you’ll understand,” he said. “You’ll live your own life, your children will grow up free. It’s… worth any price.”

_And if I cannot bargain for it myself, then at least you—_

_You have to realize. You have to…_

He turned to leave, but she gripped him as though she could hold him back with her strength. “No,” she said. “Tell them you give up. You have to. _Please.”_

He paused only a moment, his throat almost too dry to say anything.

“You will understand.”

A bell rang, announcing the competition and he couldn’t be late, couldn’t be anything but a perfect competitor. But for what, he could not remember. His mind lingered on how she gripped him, on how hard it was to disentangle himself from her. He pushed her away a bit harsher than he wanted to because she clawed so hard, screamed as though if she uses up enough air it’ll save his life. And then everything blurred again, and it was hard to pick out his own words from her wails.

_I’ll survive. I’ll win, and I’ll survive._

_It won’t be forever._

_Five years from now, ten years from now—we’ll be together again. And there will be nothing to tear us apart._

_Until then…_

Fenris did not open his eyes as he woke, instead letting the tears prickle under his eyelid. He felt his head spin, and his fist clench. Slowly, he started to take into account where he was—the cold stone against his cheek, the cooling blood all over his body—the pained gurgling far, far in the distance.

He was in Kirkwall. He was himself—as he remembered since running away from Danarius. He had no sister, no mother—no family. Everything he could remember swearing to uphold in the past—he had failed.

 _I am sorry._ He didn’t even have the strength to whisper it, but he felt it intensely—mourned for the boy who could never return as he promised, who still had not found his mother and sister after all these years.

“Get up.”

He couldn’t. But as he gained his bearings, he realized the order wasn’t directed at him. He was immobilized by magic, paralyzed upon the floor. But whoever had given the command stalked over to somewhere else, and Fenris heard a kick.

The gurgling continued. Rasping. Pained. Fenris shut his eyes even tighter.

“Get _up._ Now. _”_ That was Hadriana. “Or next time, I’ll take out an eye. We’ll see whether you regrow it then.”

Fenris heard moving, wheezing.

“Pick up the slave.” Hadriana again. “And be quick about it.”

Something was limping its way over to him—and he had a good idea what it was. Still, he couldn’t move. And then there was a clawed hand on him, gripping him.

He screwed his eyes more tightly shut. He was too weak. He could not, for all his willpower, bring himself to open them to this reality—this failure. In a moment, he was being dragged forward, droplets of liquid touching the back of his neck. There was hissing, gasping, more pained noises. He finally opened his eyes.

It was not surprising that the monster from before was dragging him. It was a bit more shocking to see the open wound on its neck attempting to heal, the bloodied ends of the gash reaching forward to knit themselves together. He tried to move, tried to jerk away. He couldn’t.

He was paralyzed, outmatched, and alone. It was over.

He was sure it was over.

But then, the moment he saw the light of the exit, it was blocked by a figure raising a staff, blood trickling down.

“What’s this?” Hadriana sneered.

The figure raised its staff. “You’re not taking him.”

_Hawke._

“In fact,” she said, and he could practically hear the rage rippling through her voice. “You’re not leaving here alive.”

And with that, Fenris saw a barrier close around the entrance, oozing with the energy of blood—Hawke’s blood. And that that very instant, an arrow whizzed from the shadows. It would have hit Hadriana right in the head, had the monster not dropped him and jumped to shield her.

They had stayed—his companions hadn’t abandoned him entirely.

“You should have left while you had the chance,” Hadriana snapped. “Scelerata, guard me!”

Someone grabbed him and yanked him upright. Aveline. Even though she was clearly swaying from blood loss and likely on her last leg, she guarded him.

“Run,” she said.

\--

Isabela and Varric were tolerable at Hawke’s mansion, mostly because they were a room away. The little interaction he allowed himself with them was…careful. Isabela told him what he wanted to know about what had happened in the underground. Varric apologized gently and offered food and drink. Neither of them needled him for more.

Anders wished he could appreciate it. Mostly, he was just glad to be left alone to rest. Much as he seethed at himself for caving in to Hawke once again, he was glad for the space. It was more than he would ever get at the clinic now that he was going back. The bed was soft, his stomach was full, and the room was quiet. So, so peacefully quiet.

The door slammed open like a lightning strike. A pale, sweaty Merrill barged in.

“Hawke!” she said, panting and out of breath. “We--have to--go! I deciphered the glyph on that lady’s back, I know how to--you’re not Hawke.” She stopped dead in her tracks. “None of you are Hawke.”

Isabela and Varric looked at each other. “Hawke’s gone,” Varric said.

“ _What?!”_ Merrill tore at her hair. “They’ve left already? And nobody told me?”

“Told you what?” Anders said irritably, appearing at the top of the stairs.

“Anders! Oh, it’s--I’m sorry, oh--Hawke took Fenris and Aveline to the Holding Caves, to confront Hadriana, but that lady’s still out there and they’ll never take her down without--” She broke off, flapping her hands. “We have to go help them,” she said. “Or they’ll die and Fenris will—he’ll…”

“You’re right,” Varric said, purposefully calm. “We have to help them. We’ll go in a moment.”

“Right,” said Isabela, glancing at Anders. “Sure we will.”

Anders felt his face contort, a violently twitch running through his body that had nothing to do with the spirit inhabiting it. Just hearing Fenris’s name made him seethe, made him taste poison and feel a burn in his chest. He couldn’t help but touch the spot over his heart, wincing at phantom sensation of a hand in his ribcage.

“You…” Varric looked cautious. “You… do want to go with us. Right?”

“You don’t have to,” Isabela said quickly.

“But—” Merrill looked flabbergasted. “But we need—”

Isabela waved her hand, and Merrill quieted instantly, drooping.

It was impossible to look them in the eyes and tell them no. He quietly got up, and picked up his staff.

“Right,” he said. “Where are we heading then?”

He shoved the poison down as far as it could go, and followed.

\--

There was a barrier over the cave entrance, muffled sounds from within. Anders set to dispel it, only for it to cling stubbornly.

“It’s Hawke’s magic,” Merrill said. “It’s a barrier tied to the spellcaster’s life force. It won’t falter as long as Hawke herself is--but maybe I can...”

She worked a few spells, frowning. “Hmm, no good. Let me--”

The barrier wavered.

“Oh dear,” Merrill squeaked. Isabela gripped her shoulder.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

“I…” Merrill said. “We need to get in there. Now.”

The barrier faltered again, this time for long enough for them to dart through. Anders almost slipped on the slick tiles, blood oozing into the cracks. Even from the other room, the battle sounded ugly.

When they rushed to it, it was absolute chaos. Shades, possessed corpses—all swarming around a few overwhelmed figures. Hawke was barely standing, propping herself in a corner even as she knocked away. Before Anders could even raise his staff to heal, they were upon him.

When he’d finally gotten to the edge of the battle, he found Aveline there, collapsed. He’d only made it halfway through a full revival spell before her freckled fist shot out to grab the front of his robes.

“Anders,” she said. “You have to… Fenris is…”

She wheezed as she gestured towards what looked like an opening to an even deeper cave.

“It went after him,” she said. “It and its master.”

Anders wanted to scream—really, really wanted to scream. For a moment, he gripped Aveline’s armor until his knuckles turned white, and wished she could have stayed unconscious. Still, he took a deep breath. He finished the spell.

“Alright,” he said. “Rest, Aveline.”

She closed her eyes. Even with his healing, she wouldn’t be able to fight for a while so he dragged her quickly to one of the corners.

He stood one moment before the cave, and entered.

\--

Even with magelight glowing from his staff, he faltered. The Holding Caves above were sculpted, adorned, and furnished to a purpose—but these were not. The floor beneath him was ragged and rocky, and every now and then he could have sworn he saw something crawling along its surface in the dark.

It was also getting smaller. Smaller, smaller, smaller until he could feel his heart thrumming painfully.

He started to feel the hum of a presence behind him, and in a moment he was turning to knock away yet more shades with his staff, firing blindly at them in the dark and listening as they hissed. He saw nothing of them, nothing but flashes of malevolent eyes and teeth when the light from his blasts caught them, all fading quickly into the darkness.

He didn’t know how many he cut through before it stopped, and he slumped against the wall. He wheezed, grasping at his aching chest, wondering if his heart had ever truly healed after Fenris’s attack, or if now with enough overexertion it would burst and leave him an empty sack.

He looked around. The walls had closed in. It was now no more spacious than a—

_Solitary confinement cell._

_Four walls closed around, no light, no air—_

The memory hit him like a giant wave, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He cried out.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t. I _can’t.”_

But somehow he still stood. His feet moved on their own, his head went empty, and he moved deeper into the earth. The walls pressed in around him. His lungs tightened. His heart race uncomfortably in his chest. He thought wildly for a moment that he would die, that simply being in this place would kill him. He was gasping for air, lightheaded and dizzy, unable to take a full breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his bearings—and continued.

Something stirred ahead of him. He reached out, flaring up the light from his staff to see ahead and—

_Karl._

Karl was standing before him, the edges of his form softly luminous in the dark. He looked as he did in Anders’s days at Kinloch Hold. There were none of the gray in his beard. There were none of the wrinkles or the dark circles under his eyes. There was none of hunch Anders had seen in his posture.

The memories ached rawly. Anders could recall every cold night at Kinloch Hold where he’d wanted to crawl into Karl’s bed for warmth, every dark day alone in the deepest cell of the tower where he’d craved to hear Karl’s voice again. Karl seemed as alive now as he’d been when Anders had climbed down the tower and crossed half of Ferelden to find him.

Karl’s eyes shone gently. His lips tugged upward into a near perfect replica of the smile Anders remembered. For a moment, he could almost forget. But Karl was dead, and had been dead years.

Anders swallowed. “You evil piece of shit,” he said. “You’re going to make me fight you when you look like him.”

Karl’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “We don’t have to fight,” it said, mimicking Karl’s tone so perfectly.

“The _void_ we don’t,” Anders tried to shout, but the hoarseness of his voice made it come out as more of a whine.

“We don't,” it said, stepping forward just slightly. “You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be doing this.”

Anders spat. “What do you know about what I want?”

“Everything.” It made Anders shudder to see Karl’s eyes gleam with that demonic light. “There is nothing mortals want that I do not know.”

For just a moment, Karl’s figure flashed. Anders only got a brief glimpse of what was behind the façade, and then it was that same kindly face again, the same soothing voice.

“You wish to leave,” it said. “You wish to rest. Your heart says ‘he hurt me, why must I now hurt to set him free?’”

Anders felt something shrivel inside him. “That’s not….”

“You are hurting,” it sounded so much like Karl that Anders wanted to cry. It was the same voice from all those times he’d laid on his stomach so Karl could rub healing ointment into his wounds. “You clung to him blindly for affection—and then he managed to wound you more. You poured yourself into him, you nurtured and healed and taught and he made you feel unwanted. That is what I hear in your heart. You hate him. You want him to suffer. You want to leave here.”

“Shut up,” he said. “Stop talking.”

Karl’s smile still managed to look angelic, even when worn by this thing.

“If you truly wanted to find him, you would see him,” it said lightly, looking over its arms as though examining its form. “If he were what you desired, you would see him now. That is the nature of my magic. You do not see him.”

Anders took a deep breath, and shuddered. He could feel something writhing in him, a sensation that burned like flame in his lungs and struggled to rise in his throat. He held it back for a moment, just a moment, and then it burst forward.

“ _You think us so weak?!_ You think we would walk away from this injustice because of our own desires? This will not stand! Slavery is a foul crime, and those who participate in it will be slaughtered!”

His head spun. The shadows in the cave danced with blue light. His voice—Justice’s voice—rang against the stone. With Justice’s eyes, everything changed. There was no longer Karl, no longer any such illusion. And his eyes pierced through the monstrous mortal shell easily to see a form of raw energy.

A demon without any of the shapes they normally took on before mortals. And yet he recognized it—Justice recognized it.

_Desire._

But stronger, older. Its energy burned brighter, is essence more twisted than a regular desire demon’s—and she did not look upon him with fear. Instead, the eyes of her mortal shell widened and she stepped forward. Anders heard a voice like a song; she spoke without moving her lips, sang a language impossible to mimic with a mortal tongue.

She was telling them her name.

_Luxuria._

How little did he know of Justice, to not even realize until this moment that spirits had their own language? And how beautiful it sounded when he heard it, those words she addressed them with.

She called them _my kin._

Justice recoiled. “None who would enslave another is kin of mine!” he roared in their language. “You are a monster, a demon—my kind and yours are opposed.”

But she was undeterred, eyes bright like stars peeking out of her mortal skull.

“Seeker of justice.” She did not call him _Justice._ That was not what he was, merely the closest way to express it in mortal terms. “Listen to me.”

“I will not!” Justice’s voice practically made the walls shake. “I do not listen to demons or slavers! Do not presume to argue with me—slavery is always an injustice!”

She didn’t even falter. “You are right,” she told him.

Anders could feel how the admission threw Justice off balance. She took advantage of his hesitation.

“Slavery is never just. Do you think I do not know this? Do you think I could not observe this from the vile, repulsive mortals I have been shackled to--that shackle me still?” her eyes flashed, and her face contorted in pure rage, and then reverted to placidity. “Regardless, seeking justice in this world means learning to choose. Have you not realized this? Have you not yet observed that sometimes you must let one cause go so that you may win another, greater one? Would it be just to throw away your life and your goals to save a single man—a man whose hands are bloodied?”

Justice’s rage seeped over him like a great wave. “You try to distract me from the core truth—that what you do is wrong, and you think I will allow it.”

“I do not think you can stop it. My master--vile, repulsive being that she is, would have me complete a task.” Her eyes flashed. “No matter how powerful you are, how skilled in combat you cannot stop me—because I will yet rise again with each new defeat. Until you tire. Until you fall.”

“You attempt to intimidate me,” he said. “To cow me into doing your will.”

The head of her mortal shell tilted. “I would simply show you what’s at stake. Think of how many innocents you could save if you lived another day. Think of what you have to lose—even if you do not die, you may live the rest of your mortal days with your fingers cut off, eyes plucked out, with your tongue torn from your mouth.”

Anders quailed involuntarily. Underneath the stream of Justice’s pure energy he shuddered in horror at the image. She would _mutilate_ them, he realized. He tried to imagine himself healing at his clinic without fingers, walking through Darktown without eyes…

She seemed to catch on. “Would you put your mortal through that, risk this mage who has sheltered you? He has but one life. Will you make him live it in pain? For what—for the freedom of this one reprehensible man? Is the slave’s life worth more?”

The blue light in the cave dimmed. Anders could feel Justice’s doubt, his hesitation—his _fear._

Justice was afraid for him. Backing down to a demon for _him._ And Anders took a deep breath like he was surfacing from deep water. He was relieved, so relieved he wouldn’t have to fight—not this monster, not when he couldn’t win, not here in the dark. Shakily, he stepped away.

She was right. He just wanted to leave. He wanted to rest. He wanted Fenris to—

He wanted—

He closed his eyes, ready to turn away. But underneath his eyelids, there were memories flickering like bits of daylight. Images. Feelings. Huddling close to someone by a fire. Reading aloud from a silly book and getting a disgusted grunt in return. Water splashing grumpily in his face. Hands tentatively holding kittens as though they were unsure how to hold anything so fragile. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, writing out each new letter of the alphabet and watching as Fenris—

_Fenris._

He took another breath, and stopped, his head swirling, mapping out everything he could possibly do: run, talk, fight…

He could never defeat this monster, he realized. But he—he wasn’t just himself, was he?

 _They_ could take her.

He felt Justice’s fire rise up inside him again.

He didn’t need to kill her—didn’t even need to try. He just had to get through.

It was a long and bloody battle to just accomplish that much. He managed it just barely, fleeing with open wounds, his staff in pieces behind him. His enemy was trapped behind him—but not long, he knew. He started searching, running himself ragged until he felt his heart started to claw its way out of his chest.

“Fenris?” he asked. “Fenris?! If you’re there you bloody elf, then answer me!”

In the blue light, he could see the walls closing in tighter yet. And then he found a branching path—two different tunnels leading in different directions—and let out a primal yell of rage and frustration.

“Why am I even _doing this?!”_

But there was no time to waste. He picked one quickly and started running again, forcing himself not to think _what if I chose the wrong—_

He found himself at a dead end, at a small room with what looked like a stone table and carvings on the wall. He scanned the place breathlessly and saw something crouched behind the stone table—a small, curled lump, heaving—

Anders had been sharpening insults at the back of his mind throughout his run, preparing every cutting comment he could to throw at the elf in exchange for having to go through this. But when he finally saw Fenris shivering on the ground, blood splattered over his face and eyes wild with fear, they vanished into the air.

Their eyes locked. Fenris made to back away, hand clutching his sword.

“Fenris,” Anders said, reaching out his hands.

He activated his healing aura without thinking of it. He watched as the tension melted out of Fenris’s shoulders, as some of the blood dripping from him stopped. The fear lines on his forehead slowly vanished, only for his face to contort with some new emotion.

“You… you’re here,” he rasped.

Without further hesitation, Anders stalked forward. Fenris didn’t offer any resistance as Anders reached forward and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Come on,” Anders said. “We’re leaving.”

Pulling up Fenris was like pulling up dead weight. Anders wondered if he even realized what he was going on—his eyes were unfocused, dizzy with probable blood loss. Anders poured energy into him with his touch, gritting his teeth as he prayed he hadn’t come too late.

“The others came with me,” he said. “We have to get back to them but—we’ll have to pass the monster.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in the bloody way, that’s why!”

“No,” Fenris’s eyes dropped to the floor. “ _Why?_ ”

Anders paused as he understood.

“Because I spent a week and a half with you and it really wasn’t… bad,” he replied. “Because I owe it to you for—for being such an ass to you for so long. Because you did the same for me just a few weeks ago.”

“Only because… I didn’t know…”

Fenris probably wasn’t trying to be snappy and ungrateful. He was likely too foggy to realize what he was saying, but still Anders grit his teeth.

“Because you’re a person,” he said. “Because no one deserves to be a slave. Because I actually care about freedom. And because—because I’ve known you, fought beside you for three years! No matter what you’ve said, I’d still be upset if you were carted back to Tevinter, damn you!”

Fenris just slumped against him, his head drooping.

“Oh no you don’t.” Anders felt the pitch of his voice rise, and he shook Fenris roughly. “Don’t you pass out now. I did _not_ go through all this just to have you—stand _up!”_

Anders angrily poured more mana into him. Fenris slowly staggered up.

“How… how will we pass it?” he asked, quietly. “And Hadriana… my master’s apprentice…”

“I… I don’t know,” Anders said. “They might—they might have gone the other way. Might spend hours tunneling down thinking we’re there somewhere. We might be lucky. Who knows?”

\--

They were not lucky.

Right as they stepped outside the room, Anders could hear shuffling footsteps in the darkness coming for them. He closed his eyes, feeling his stomach drop. In a moment, he saw—not the monster at first, but a woman with cold blue eyes, the monster looming behind her.

“Scelerata,” the woman, presumably Hadriana, said. “Get rid of the healer.”

He had no staff. He only had his hands, and Justice. He dropped Fenris and jumped to to defend, but the thing struck too quickly from the darkness, and he was too tired. In a moment, he had been battered against a wall, gasping for air as he tried to defend again each new strike.

He was convinced he was going to die underground when he saw another flash. He heard a cry and when he looked, Hadriana had been blown away. In her place stood an elf with a staff in one hand, a book in the other.

“Anders! Fenris!”

 _Merrill._ Anders had never been so happy to see a blood mage in his entire life. However, the creature was upon her immediately and Merrill yelped, barely able to dodge in time.

“Help!” she said. “Get it away—fight it while I do the spell!”

He saw Fenris rise from where he had fallen, scrambling to get up to Merrill’s cry. Weak as he was, Anders felt yet another surge of energy and stood to fight.

“This is absurd!” snapped Hadriana. “I tire of this. Take them down. Take them _all_ down in the next minute or you’ll be living out the rest of your immortality buried alive in a metal coffin, you useless _thing_!”

In the darkness, the creature’s breath caught. It was enough of an opening for Fenris to roar and lunge at it. It had to whirl to defend itself, leaving Merrill free. Anders jumped in, doubling their attacks on it even as he had to dodge blasts of magic from Hadriana.

He was scarcely aware of what Merrill was doing. Still, in the few flashes he saw, he noticed her kneel, open the book. And then in another moment, the veins in her arms had opened, blood pouring out of them as she traced a glyph on the ground, and then dug a knife into her hand, carving, carving.

When Merrill spoke, he could not recognize the words. They sounded as ethereal as the spirit language, and yet when his head turned—all their heads turned—he saw her lips moving in the shadows, her body outlined in a soft red glow.

There was an abrupt pause in the fight. The creature turned their backs on them both, and stalked toward her.

“No,” Fenris hissed. He gripped his sword. “You will not _touch_ her. You—”

But it—she—stopped right before Merrill, standing over her without raising her claw-like hands to attack. Merrill looked  so small on her knees in front of it, but she clenched her jaws and met the creature’s eyes.

“What do you bid,” the creature asked, and then added, “…my new master?”

“Oh, well,” Merrill flailed her hands weakly in Hadriana’s direction. “Could you kill her, please?”

Anders saw a flare of magic around the thing in the dark. Behind them all, he heard Hadriana drop her staff and let out a horrified shriek.

Everything happened too fast. Hadriana ran, grabbing her staff. Fenris chased but he was not as fast as the monster. In a moment Hadriana had stumbled and fallen against a wall. She raised her staff but it was quickly knocked straight out of her hands.

“Stop!” she cried, “Stop, you don’t want me dead! Please! Ple—”

Anders closed his eyes, but he didn’t cover his ears in time to muffle the scream, or the sickening noise of ripping that echoed down the cavern as shrieking died away.

\--

All in all, it hadn't been one of Hawke's most successful road trips, but it also was far from the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday was my birthday and I had to spend it with my homophobic aunt. I am mentioning this detail to garner sympathy in order to get more comments. 
> 
> Next chapter: Important Decisions are made. People talk.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plolt twist: Merrill's favorite game is Undertale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooookay. So. This is late. I have been having kind of a busy week, so it's been hard to write. I hope you all enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Warnings: this chapter is kinda gory and some of the imagery might be disturbing. Also, some technically unnecessary backstory.

Merrill did not close her eyes in time.

After the first few seconds it became impossible to shut them—or to move, or breathe. She could only sit frozen on her knees, lungs seized up, throat constricted, eyes wide open as ribbons of flesh, organs, bones—

Merrill wasn’t even sure if her heart still beat in her own chest by the time the human woman stopped screaming. She only barely noticed when it stopped, and only then because it made all the other noises reach her ears.

“Stop,” she said. Then, after another tearing noise, another  _ crack,  _ she shouted. “Stop!”

And the gore-drench figure stopped. The demon—abomination—whatever she could be classed as, she had made quick work of the body. Now she was crouched on the floor, head dropped, claws still latched into the corpse’s ribcage.

Merrill had never seen anything make such quick work of its prey, not even the most savage of beasts.

“That’s enough,” Merrill said. “She’s dead.”

The woman stayed where she was a moment, head down, her ragged breaths echoing throughout the cave. She snapped her head back, and her eyes flashed at Merrill in the dark. She started to crawl, and immediately Fenris moving again, raising his sword and stumbling forward.

“Kill it,” Fenris said, gripping his sword tightly as he faltered. “ _ Kill  _ it.”

He didn’t make more than a few steps. Even in the dark, Merrill could see blood gushing from his side. Anders moved to his side, supporting him--pouring mana into Fenris’s wound with one hand and lifting his staff, readying it to strike with the other.

The woman didn’t spare either of them a second glance. Her gaze stayed on Merrill, eyes still gleaming in the darkness, veins pulsing with magic, grimace visible in the little light that was left.

There was a moment of strangled silence between the four of them, and it lingered as none of them attacked. Eventually, Merrill closed her eyes, and felt the weariness threaten to take her.

She was dizzy. Part of it was the blood loss. The rest was everything else. She would be glad to get out of here. She had a feeling that these images would return to her in the Fade for nights long after.

She was still bleeding, perhaps even dangerously so. She had cut herself deeply in her haste, which was always a mistake. She would have called for healing but she knew that it wouldn’t help—not now, with the blood spell still working. She pressed into her palm instead, willing the bleeding there at least to stop.

How long would this spell last?

The creature—the _woman_ was still looking at her. Merrill lifted her chin. Merrill could barely see her—had never even seen her in full light. In the darkness it was easy for her mind to latch onto the slight hints of form and turn them into something more frightening. Perhaps that was intentional.

But the woman didn’t attack. She stared. Anders’s healing magic hummed in the background. Violence threatened to erupt any moment.

She stood and took a single step forward. In the corner of her eye Merill saw Fenris lift his sword, Anders grip his staff—

“No!” Merrill held out her hand. “Fenris, Anders—”

But of course they didn’t stop. They were just a few paces away, both already glowing. The woman snarled and hissed, magic crackling around her. Merrill blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“We need to question her!” she said, trying to get up and falling back to her knees. “Stop,  _ now!” _

Fenris stayed his hand, but he growled. “What  _ questions  _ would we ask of it?” he spat. “It needs to die—there is nothing else we can trust it for!”

Anders flickered, the light building up in his staff dimming just a little. “This is a demon,” he said, eyes flashing. “It cannot be trusted.”

Merrill took a deep, steady breath. “Wait,” she said.  “Just wait.”

She stood, tiny bright dots swarming in her vision. She needed to do something about the blood. She had some bandages she always kept on her in case of a situation like this, and she fumbled for them now. She wrapped them quickly around the open wounds on her arm, and stepped forward. She heard a deep, hissing breath from the lady. The tunnel air turned cold, hostile.

“I know you can speak,” Merrill said. “I want to ask some questions.”

No response. Merrill kept a safe distance.

“What should I call you?” Merrill asked. “Scelerata?”

The woman’s voice was harsh, only a hint of layers ringing through the cave around her. “That is what they called us.”

“Us… hm.” Merrill frowned. She had questions, so many questions, but she could hear Anders and Fenris shifting into position behind her. She would keep it brief and practical for now. “Are you… obligated now to do as I say?”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought the spell would do,” Merrill said absently.

“You thought  _ what?”  _ Anders asked hotly. “You’ve been studying a spell with the sole purpose of binding spirits with blood?”

Merrill decided to hurry on before Anders could spin out into a whole rant. “I order you to tell me the truth,” she said, “And to not hide anything. Mention anything that you think might be relevant or that I would want to know when you answer.”

It was vague, Merrill thought, trying to re-examine her words for loopholes, but it was a start. The possessed woman shifted. “If you ask, then I must obey.”

“Excellent.” That was Fenris, though Merrill did not take her eyes off the lady to look at him. “Ask it how we may send it to the Void.”

“Wait,” she said. “Just—oh, anyway. Were you using a phylactery to track Fenris down?”

“Yes, master.”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

The woman twisted her head in the dark, and Merrill saw a flash of teeth in what looked like a cross between a snarl and a sneer. Merrill decided to move on.

“Anyway,” Merrill said. “Tell us where to find it—and tell us about your… former master’s plans and anything that might affect Fenris now. And how you all made him lose his memory again.”

“There is a chest,” she said. “In one of the rooms above. Hadriana kept many belongings there. The phylactery. Papers. Information on allies in the city. And a tome, one I believe contains the spell to re-activate the lyrium and induce the memory loss. It is locked with magic. It can be unlocked with magic. I do not know the particular spell.”

Merrill flicked her eyes to Fenris. He showed no reaction to the news, so Merrill offered, “That’s good to know, right?”

Fenris only grunted. Merrill turned back.

“So,” she said. “Abominations can die. Revenants… don’t come back that much.”

No response. But of course—she wouldn’t do anything unless ordered.

“Tell me,” Merrill said. “What are you? What makes you different?”

“Merrill.” Anders’s voice sounded like a warning.  _ Don’t pry into dangerous magic  _ she could hear in the way he said it.  _ You idiot. _

“Oh, wait,” she said. “Let me… Let me see you.”

She called upon a wisp of light and cautiously stepped closer. The woman’s head jerked back, but she stayed in place. Merrill could see dull skin, darkened veins, skin torn open—and then a flash of needlike teeth and claws.

“Right,” Merrill said. “The claws, the teeth—those are illusions? Or a form of shapeshifting?”

“They are not illusions.” Her voice was clipped, harsh. “They are there when we need them, master.”

Merrill massaged her forehead. “I… you don’t have to call me that.”

No answer. Merrill was not close enough to detect any change in her features.

“So how does that work?” Merrill asked. “Is it something all abominations can do? Why can’t Anders, then? Or maybe it’s just a demon thing…”

“This is not important,” Fenris snapped from out of Merrill’s vision. “Be done already, or I’ll—!”

She just raised a hand. “Please wait,” she said. “We have—if we don’t know everything then how can we…?” She didn’t finish her sentence, frowning as another thought crossed her mind, one that snapped into place as she heard another one of the lady’s hissing breaths. “Oh,” she said.

“Oh?” That was Anders, sounding impatient. But Merrill was thinking, and she wasn’t thinking about him.

“You’re still breathing,” Merrill chirped, satisfied at the observation in spite of everything. “You can’t be a possessed corpse—corpses don’t breathe! How funny, I was so sure…”

And she found herself craning her neck forward more, and though she could figure out more just by looking closer. Instantly, there was another flash—this time, of a fuller figure with luscious hair. Merrill sucked in a breath, but the illusion was gone as soon as it came, leaving the mangled creature unaffected.

“Oooh, yes. The illusion magic,” Merrill said. “When you make yourself look like someone else. That’s a desire demon trait, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the lady answered flatly.

“And how does that work?” Merrill asked. “You look like anyone I… want?”

She thought of the form she’d seen the lady take, and flushed. She shoved her squirming, unresolved feelings down. Her eyes focused back on the present moment, on what was in front of her. The lady’s face revealed nothing, but every muscle in her neck contracted.

“Yes.”

“Is it just looks?” Merrill said. “Do you also sound like someone else and feel like someone else when you use the spell? Or would touching you break the illusion? I mean…”

Merrill heard a single sharp breath from the woman, and realized she had reached out a hand to poke what was in front of her to test it out. She withdrew her hand, babbling.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill said. “I suppose I’m being quite… um…”

She thought she heard Fenris say something, but it seemed to come from far away, as though she was underwater. It was suddenly impossible to hear anything, because the woman had stepped close and Merrill felt as though she’d suddenly caught a whiff of a strong perfume.

“I can be anything,” the lady’s voice was silky. “Look how you want, feel how you want… say everything you want to hear,  _ kitten.” _

Merrill’s heart stopped, her blood rushing right to her ears. She hadn’t realized how much like Isabela the lady had suddenly started to seem, how now her hair seemed fuller than just a few minutes ago and how much sweeter her voice sounded. She realized it in only a split second, not long enough to process what that meant.

The first touch on her throat was a tickle, the gentlest sensation. Anders shouted, but then it was too late, because there were already hands around Merrill’s windpipe, cutting off her airflow, a crackle of entropy magic sucking away at her lifeforce.

Merrill flailed, panicking as she realized her feet had left the floor. She heard a hoarse whisper as everything started to whirl around her.

“No more orders,” it said. “No more, no more—”

_ She’s going to break my neck. I’m dead, I’m dead— _

But no. She dropped to the floor, wheezing. Her vision swam, but she saw blue flashes lighting up what little she could see and immediately grasped what had happened. In a second, her hearing was back and she could hear roaring, a sword hitting flesh, the whizz of magic, and—

Pained gasps. Anguished cries that made Merrill’s heart twist with guilt.

“Everyone, stop!” Merrill managed again. “Scelerata, I forbid you from attacking my friends, or me. Anders, Fenris—”

“Stop?!” Fenris roared back at her, even as he drew up his blade. “ _ Venhendis _ ! Your curiosity will be your end!”

Merrill’s voice was giving. “It’s not--”

“Fenris is right,” Anders snapped. “It was  _ luring  _ you, you damn fool!”

Merrill’s vision steadied, and past her friends’ feet she could she the woman lying on the ground.

“You’re disgusting,” Anders spat at her. “She was showing you mercy. She was being kind!”

The figure on the floor stirred. “Mercy?” she rasped. “Kindness?  _ Fuck  _ your kindness! I could have been  _ free _ !”

There was no crackle of magic this time, no echo of power in her voice. The sound fell dead against the cave walls. She struggled up, and Merrill saw both Anders and Fenris readying a new attack.

“No!” Merrill said. “She won’t attack. She can’t.”

She spat, catching Merrill’s eye. “You. You think to recreate the magic that gave us our power? You never will.  _ Never.  _ Not from our scant memories. But know this.” Her eyes crackled again, and when she laughed Merrill could hear the demonic layers in her voice. “A magister wanted eternal life, to never be slain. He needed the sacrifice of a hundred slaves for this ritual he devised, and the life force of a powerful spirit.  _ I  _ was there, the last bleeding on that wretched pile.  _ I  _ was there, pulled from the Fade into his thrall.”

She had risen now, backed against a wall, face twisted in rage. “What a common, inconsequential mortal he was!” she laughed, her voice booming so powerfully that it rippled the very air. “He thought to bargain with me, when he realized his summoning spell had failed to bind me. Vile,  _ foul  _ mortal.” Merrill saw a flash, and suddenly the demon’s voice turned soft. “But the last living sacrifice, the girl…”

Merrill swallowed. “You possessed her.”

A whisper, almost reverential. “She was beautiful.”

“You possessed a dying slave who had no other real choice,” Anders snapped. “I’m not surprised, demon.”

She spat in his face. “What do you know of us?” she hissed, eyes wild and unfocused. “She called to me. She sang— _ I want, I want, I want.  _ Cut the overseer’s throat, ran, ran ‘til feet were bloodied and blistered, knocked on every door begging, weeping for help, still not enough. Found anyway, dragged right back and thrown in the pit.  _ I want, I want.  _ I made her broken legs walk, I put power in her hands, I gave her the magister’s heart and the ritual was complete—but for  _ us.” _

“And you ended up right back in another magister’s service,” Fenris snarled. “Hunting down his slaves. Brutalizing them. Seems to me like you enjoyed the work.”

“Who are  _ you  _ to speak?!” she shrieked. “What blood magic bound  _ you  _ when you killed for Danarius _?  _ I will not be lectured by his tame little pet. You bargained with him for power, for the lyrium in your skin. You were  _ left.  _ You were found and tended and cared for. You could have walked away easily and you  _ decided _ to kill those who had helped you. Freedom was handed to you on a silver platter, and you spat on it.  _ DO NOT PRESUME TO JUDGE US, FILTH.” _

The echoes of her voice rang against the walls. Through her spotty vision, Merrill could see Fenris quail.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Merrill said. “Don’t ever talk to Fenris like that again.”

Another hiss, and the woman’s head snapped to focus her gaze on Merrill. She stumbled, limping towards her.

“Oh no you don’t,” Fenris snarled, stepping forward and blocking her way.

“Wait, Fenris,” Merrill said. She pulled herself up. “She can’t hurt me.”

“You’re being a power-hungry fool,” Anders. “Are you really that desperate for more dark magic? Ask how to kill it, and let us be done with this!”

The woman completely ignored him, eyes still fixed on Merrill.

“You,” she hissed. “Know this. I will be waiting every moment, thinking, planning. You will slip up. You will stumble and the moment I have the leeway I will cut your throat and be rid of you. I have forever. I will outlast you.”

Merrill met her burning gaze only for a moment. Her head dropped.

“I… I’m,” Merrill swallowed, deciding  _ sorry  _ was useless. She grit her teeth. Her mind whirled, trying to decide how to respond to this, what was the right thing to do. She squeezed her eyes shut, considering everything.

Merrill clenched her jaw.

“Scelerata,” she said. “I… I order you, from here on out, not to kill, or grievously injure any person again.” She took a deep breath, and looked up, meeting the demon’s eyes. “Beyond that… you can go free.”

There was a moment of dead silence before an explosion of noise shattered it.

“You  _ what _ ?!” Anders shouted. “This is a demon! She’s going to  _ murder  _ you! Didn’t you hear her?!”

“You would let a demon run loose?” That was Fenris, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind—she tries to strangle you!”

Merrill kept her eyes past them. The lady had frozen, mouth slackened. The demonic light slowly bled out of her eyes, leaving only dark human irises.

She stared at Merrill. Only Merrill.

“Go on,” Merrill said. “I said you can go!”

The lady flinched as though struck. Then she turned, and hobbled away, deeper into the tunnels.

When Fenris made to follow her, Merrill blocked his way, reaching out. He shoved her away.

“She was just afraid when she attacked me,” Merrill said, her voice still low and raspy. “She was trying to defend herself. She couldn’t know I wouldn’t be like her last master. I’d have done the same.”

“You weak—” Fenris spat. “You blood mage lunatic!”

“That doesn’t matter, Merrill!” Anders said, brows furrowed, lecturing like he always did. “You can’t just let her run loose. She’s dangerous!”

Merrill looked coolly between them. “She was a slave. It’s not her fault this happened. She deserves to live a free life. If she can’t hurt anyone, then…”

“It doesn’t matter what it was once!” Fenris said. “ _ It  _ is possessed now! Whatever person used to be there is dead!”

Dead silence fell over the cave. Fenris stiffened, as though suddenly realizing the implication of his words.

“What?” Anders asked, disbelieving. “You’re really going to say that. Right now. After everything I just did.”

Fenris stiffened, tightening his lips. For a moment he looked like he wouldn’t say anything more. But only a moment.

“This isn’t about you,” he snapped.

“Isn’t it?” Anders said. “Then just look me in the face and tell me you think I’m a person. And not just, some empty vessel animated by a demon. Go on.”

“ _ Fasta vass _ !” Fenris spat. “Do you think I am going to say up is down, or the sky is green, just because you helped me and  _ you  _ want it? Do you think I owe you obeisance for this? I will not coddle you. A demon is a demon; an abomination is an abomination.”

“Fenris,” Merrill said. “Please. You’re tired. We’re all tired...”

“You bloody ingrate! You idiot!” Anders exploded. “You’re blind if you think Justice is a demon after all this! You just can’t see what’s right in front of you!”

“You’re the one who can’t see what’s right in front of you!” Fenris shot back. “You should never have let that thing into yourself!”

“Why, you—”

Merrill shrank, covering her ears as they continued.

When they extracted themselves from their argument, they realized the woman had already slipped away into the cave. When they followed, they found a pile of collapsed rocks blocking their way.

\--

The party upstairs found themselves short a healer once their demon possessed enemies unexpectedly fell. When a quick remark from Aveline told them where he had gone, Isabela whistled.

“Wow,” she said, even as they trudged towards the entrance to the cave to drag the rest of their friends up. “Anders went right after Fenris, huh?”

Varric put his hand over his heart. “He does care, after all.”

“Aww,” Isabela sniffled, and wiped a tear away from her eye. “Maybe this will help them sort things out. Saving each other’s lives! Being there in each other’s time of need! They can’t stay mad with each other after all this, right? Right?”

There was an echo of shouting from the tunnels, and a flash of blue light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: "Scelerata" is not a name. It's a Latin word that I borrowed to use as Tevene because it was the closest term to "abomination" I could find from a quick search. Hadriana did not address the creature by her name, but I figured she'd address her _some_ kind of way, so that's why I stole the word.
> 
> There should be... one or two chapters left. This fic is basically at the end. 
> 
> Next chapter: Fenris and Anders talk. And maybe there is something about cats :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a song. 
> 
> [Freedom? Oh Freedom, that's just some people talking](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-bwXhts8Zg)  
> [Your prison is walking through this world all alone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-bwXhts8Zg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is effectively the last chapter. The next chapter will be a short epilogue focused on Merrill. So. I hope everyone enjoys!

Everyone needed healing. The battle had taken quite a toll on the entire group. Isabela was barely holding it together. Varric had that glazed look of someone who’d taken too many potions. Aveline was awake but grounded. Hawke had completely passed out in a puddle of her own blood. It was enough to force Anders away from his argument. 

Well, that, and the fact that Varric and Isabela had literally dragged them away from each other.

“Don’t fight, be friends!” Varric had pleaded.

Anders had managed to grit his teeth and get back to the job. The moment he was kneeling down beside Hawke, there was some man he didn’t recognize popping up.

“Are you a healer?” the man asked, bright blue eyes wide. “Oh, thank the Maker. Are you acquaintances of Serah Hawke? How did you know to find us?”

Anders blinked. Before he could even answer though, the man was helpfully pulling bandages out of some pack he had, offering to help, talking about what salves he had brought. Anders raised an eyebrow at the others.

“Who the fuck is this?” he’d asked.The man started to introduce himself, 

but trailed off with a squawk when Anders started glowing with healing magic. Anders ground his jaw, and chose not to focus on the man’s insulting reaction while there was a job to be done. Hawke’s wounds knit easily together, and in a moment her breathing had steadied and she was muttering Aveline’s name. After that, everyone was easy enough to patch up.

Anders chose not to even look in Fenris’s direction the whole way back.

\--

Hawke didn’t wake up until they had made it back to Kirkwall and put her to bed. When she finally cracked her eyes open and saw Anders, he tried not to be insulted at the disappointed huff of air she made.

“Anders,” she said.

“You sound so discouraged,” he said. “Next time you run off to fight blood mages without me, I’m not letting the others convince me to charge in to save all of you.”

She scoffed. “Everyone in one piece?” she asked. “Hadriana and the monster dead?”

“… two out of the three,” he said. “You need to talk to Merrill about the monster. Her demonic interests have gotten out of hand this time.”

And he felt a twinge, something like discomfort and disagreement in his gut. Disagreement. Over a  _ demon. _

_ Justice, really? _

But he couldn’t quantify what Justice’s objection was, exactly. Before he could even think about it, Hawke was moving on.

“Anders,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Anders immediately froze. “About what?”

“About what happened before you disappeared,” she said. “About Ella.”

Anders gulped. “I…”

“Not now,” she said. “Not if you don’t want to. I’m tired now, anyway. You’re probably tired too. Rest. Rest  _ here,  _ in the estate, preferably. The Templars have been… active. Gotten uppity. We need to talk about that too.”

“Ooh, uppity Templars, what a shock,” Anders countered. Bizarrely, Hawke smiled at him wryly. She must have been delirious, he realized. She had never so much cracked a smile at any of his better jokes.

“It’s good to have you back, Anders,” she said. “The real you.”

“I…” Anders frowned. He suddenly remembered he’d been smitten over this woman for years—still had been right up until they’d put a brand to his forehead. Now, those feelings were gone, and even recalling them seemed unreal. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s…”

“Talk later,” she said. “Go get some rest.”

\--

He didn’t take Hawke’s offer, but climbed down the shortcut back to his clinic. He set to work putting everything in order for the next day, and started to think. Not the productive kind of thinking, unfortunately. Mostly it was just images of scattered organs around the cave wall, and Karl’s face twisting into demonic shapes. And then, of Fenris’s face during that last bitter argument, the words he had said.

_ Demon. Abomination. _

The silence started to get to him. He felt something ugly and sad curling up in his gut, and decided to call it a night, and went to sleep.

In his dreams, he was sitting in a familiar black cell, the walls stone cold around him. He started to rock back and forth, cry out, weep uncontrollably—but this time, he felt a hand on his.

“I am here,” someone said, and pulled him close. “You won’t be alone again, I swear it.”

He saw a bearded face, kind eyes in the darkness. But the moment he reached his hand up to touch, there was a flash of blue. And then, there was only himself.

He woke up, no more comforted than before. He took to thinking.

He had been in love with Hawke for years—foolishly so. He’d loved many over the course of his life, some in brief flashes, some longer. Men and women of all shapes and sizes. He could remember Irving shaking his head at him.  _ Learn to guard those feelings of yours, boy,  _ he’d said.  _ Guard that bleeding heart of yours, they’ll crush it. _

But only one person had ever loved  _ him _ .

The desire demon had never shown him Hawke’s face, or anyone else’s. Just  _ him. _

The only person that had ever made him feel loved in return.

He had prevented himself from thinking about Karl for years, burying the memory in clinic work and errands for Hawke, and fighting for Hawke, and  _ Hawke.  _ But buried or not, everything still ached and now it was all rushing back.

He sat on the bed, and felt something like a scream rise up in his throat.

_ It’s okay. Let it out. _

He had no idea where the thought came from. It was like a flash of memory from one of those times Karl had soothed his wounds, or Justice attempting to speak soothingly for once. He didn’t let it out, though, but held down the oncoming fit until it died.

There were a few cold hard facts he had to face. He wanted love—specifically, as  _ Luxuria  _ had shown him, he wanted to  _ be  _ loved. Wanted it desperately, that feeling of being treasured. But…

_ Demon. _

_ Abomination. _

_ What has magic touched that it does not spoil? _

He was not easy to love. Even Hawke, who had no issue with him being a mage, or being possessed, turned up her nose at him as though he were a disgusting sewer rat. He was—he acknowledged with a wince—a petty, unkind, selfish person at his very core. And he was getting older. Worn down, living in a sewer, with nothing to offer… no rational person would want any of that, would  _ love  _ any of that.

And even if that was not an issue… well, he could recall every word Fenris had shouted at him at the Holding Caves.

No one would love a possessed apostate. It was a miracle anytime someone acknowledged him as a person, knowing everything about him. That was just… the way this world worked.

He’d be alone the rest of his life. It was time to start making peace with that.

Anders could feel Justice pushing, almost clawing against these thoughts. It was time to get up and do something, he supposed. Justice always seemed to get anxious when he wallowed.

He got up, and set to work.

\--

When Fenris returned to the mansion, he found scratch marks where there had been none before. In a moment, there were three tiny balls of fluff hurtling down the stairs and mewling at him. The mother turned

He realized they had gone without food for a day and a half. As he set out to fix this as quickly as he could, he noticed some of the scratches in the wall much too deep to be created by a cat. They got particularly worrisome looking around the cupboard the cat food was in.

Troubling.

He looked over and saw the mother cat perched in the corner. She gave her paw a single lick, and then growled when he kept looking at her. Shrugging, he set out food for the kittens pawing around his feet, being careful not to step on them.

Fenris belated realized how soothing it was to have a task to do for another living creature. Once the cats were fed, the entire mansion was uncomfortably quiet. He tripped over some remains of the mess he had made days ago. He still had not cleaned up. He still did not want to.

He curled up on the couch. He tried to tell himself that it was better now, that there was no longer Hadriana to hunt him down and the creature no longer had reason to. But it was not better. Something weighed upon his chest like a giant set of chains.

He was thinking of the way Merrill’s face scrunched up when he spat at her. He thought of the blank second before Anders had begun shouting at him, when he had stared at him as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

But no. He didn’t want to think of Anders at all. The man had called him an animal enough times--why shouldn’t he point out what the mage really was? It was simply the truth, if a harsh one. He refused to feel guilty.

…was that what he felt now?

He felt his stomach curl in on itself.

Perhaps he’d feel better about the whole thing if he had gotten to kill Hadriana himself—but even that choice had been taken from him. Perhaps he would have felt better if he had not needed them, had not had to rely on Hawke for support in the first place, on Aveline to guard him, on Varric and Isabela to rally the others, on Merrill’s blood magic, on—

He needed them. He had needed them from the beginning, and they—they all saw him as—

It stung. He didn’t want to think of it anymore.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard some faint knocking at the door, but he didn’t rise to answer it. Days later, when he heard knocking again, he opened the door and felt his stomach sink. But then, he didn’t know who he had been expecting.

“Hawke,” he said curtly. “Come in.”

\--

Hawke was as helpful as she was brusque. Instead of asking him to go on more of her errands, she kept passing on jobs and requests that got passed to her from different mercenary guilds and the like. And soon, she didn’t have to pass any on to him for him to be steadily employed. He had enough work outside of hers that he did not need to rely on it.

He eventually went on a few missions with her, now and then. Each time, there was only Aveline and Sebastian. Maybe occasionally Varric or Isabela, who apologized and would greet him comfortably before leaving him mostly alone. Never Merrill. Never Anders.

Hawke had gotten stricter about choosing her parties, Fenris realized.

“Wicked Grace night is still Tuesday’s, Broody,” Varric said after one jaunt. “You’re free to drop in any night.”

But he did not join. He spent his nights holed up in his manor, nursing the little stings he felt when he thought of any of them. After simply wasting away and drinking wore on him, he started to clean, to go over the places he had broken in his fit and patch them up. The kittens mewled around his feet often as he worked, sometimes swatting at him as though it were some kind of game. The “mother” cat even started to warm up to him, sometimes rubbing up against his leg for brief flashes of time, even if she hissed when he got close.

But eventually, once there was little work left to do at home, he went back to the Hanged Man. Seeing how everyone brightened at the sight of him was… disconcerting.

“Hey!” Isabela said. “Long time no see!”

Fenris looked around the table. “I…”

“There’s always room for one more, Broody,” Varric said, patting a seat. “Sit down. Choir Boy was just showing us a few card tricks.”

Fenris locked eyes with Hawke for a moment and she grunted noncommittally. Fenris sat down, and hunched.

“Drinks are on me tonight.” That was Sebastian, the archer. Fenris nodded curtly. And then it was awkward, but he raised his eyes, took his cards and a glass, and started playing.

Anders was not there.

\--

He was on a jaunt for some smuggler, searching for one crate of many in some warehouse. It began to snow outside as he opened crate after crate, and then by the time he looked outside he found it had turned into an annoying snowstorm. Rare, for Kirkwall. But apparently not impossible. He scrunched his nose, realizing he would be stuck here for a while.

The sound of armor clanking outside, which had drawn him at first, turned out not to be any guards sent after him by the owners of the establishment. Nor did they turn out to be city guardsmen who might arrest a thief. Instead they were Templars, and they hurried right along, likely seeking shelter elsewhere in the recent turn of improbably bad weather.

After determining that the crate he had been sent to find was not in the warehouse (something that left him fuming, if a little too tired to kick anything) he sat down in a corner, huddling for warmth and cursing his current employers under his breath. He drifted off, only waking as he heard a sound.

A sound from under the floorboards. Scratching, pushing, and then he saw one of them gently lifting up.

Fenris did not know what he was expecting when he stood and ripped the floorboards, but it wasn’t a ratty, robed figure raising his staff, flicker blue. Fenris saw feathers, and practically felt his jaw drop.

“Anders?” he asked.

The glowing died. “Fen--?”

But before he could finish his disbelieving sentence, Fenris had reached down and was yanking him up by the collar of his coat, ignoring his indignant squawks.

\--

It had been almost a month, and already Anders looked considerably worse. Fenris had not thought much of it, but now he had to realize Anders had regained some semblance of health during their time together. Now, in comparison, he was more ragged and gaunt than ever. His cheeks had started to hollow out, his eyes seemed to have new lines sprouted around them, and deeper, darker bags underneath than ever. His skin had become dull and almost gray.

It was still snowing.

“What are you doing here?” Fenris asked.

Anders shrugged, and didn’t offer an answer.

“There were Templars earlier,” Fenris said. “You’ve been doing something foolish.”

Anders scoffed. “Oh yes, foolishly being a mage, with magic. Just regular old Anders, making his usual poor life decisions.”

Fenris grunted, already weary of the conversation. He didn’t need to know what Anders had gotten himself into this time. He went back to where he had been huddling on the floor instead, and watched as Anders shuffle uncertainly.

“Are you really going to go back under the floorboards?” Fenris asked.

Anders huffed indignantly, but seemed to take that as an invitation. He sat down across from Fenris, his face scrunched.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.

“I haven’t seen you, either,” Fenris mumbled back.

“Probably for the best,” Anders scrunched his nose. “That means you haven’t seriously injured yourself, right?”

“Right,” Fenris said.

He listened to the sound of the wind outside, contemplating why he hadn’t told Anders to skitter back under the floorboards like a cockroach. Perhaps, even though he knew Anders hated him—had  _ felt  _ that hatred viscerally—it was still nice to have a voice talking back. Days and days of silence and isolation in between jobs had begun to get to him.

Anders started to talk. “So,” he said. “You’ve been…?”

“Alright,” Fenris answered.

Anders nodded, as though taking note. “Have you been making that salve for your markings?”

Fenris had—and hadn’t, some other days, refusing to mix it out of some measure of apathy and deep-coiled resentment. But overall, he had continued it enough to nod now.

“Alright,” Anders repeated. “And the cats?”

Fenris frowned. “Have been getting bigger. Even the so called  _ mother  _ has been getting bigger. I do not think adult cats are supposed to grow.”

“She’s probably just filling out now that she’s well fed.”

Fenris grunted. “I do not think it is a cat.”

“I  _ told  _ you, the ears…”

“Mean nothing,” Fenris said. “It is a dog. Of… some kind. I am not sure.”

Anders grunted. “I’m not going to argue,” he said. “I haven’t even seen them in a long time.”

“I expected you to march up to his manor and demand to have them back,” Fenris confessed. “You had implied you’d do as much, before.”

Anders rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I did, didn’t I?” he said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Darktown is not a good place for any cat. Not even one as fearsome as Lady Fluffybuns.”

Fenris scoffed at hearing the old name.

“Varric talked me out of it, actually,” Anders said. “But he tried to do it the opposite way around. ‘You want cats, Blondie? Well, Darktown’s no good then. You know the starving refugees will eat them, and then you’ll just be upset. Here, let me set you up with a place in Lowtown, and then…’” Anders waved his hand dismissively.

“You’ve been talking with Varric, then,” Fenris said.

“Yes,” Anders said. “You know how he is. How they all are. But I don’t have anyone else. It’s better to have them in my life than not to.”

Fenris found himself forming a smile that felt a little stale on his face. “Unlike me,” he joked, regretting it immediately when he saw the look on Anders’s face.

Anders blinked. “Unlike—what?” he gave a little laugh. “What are you saying?”

Fenris clamped his mouth shut harder.

“Is this—are you saying  _ I’m  _ the one who decided  _ you  _ weren’t worth having as a friend? Is that the idea here? Because—”

“You made it quite clear you despised me,” Fenris said.

“I—what?” Anders started to look angry. “I risked my life to save you!”

“That wasn’t because you enjoy my company, as you pointed out at the time,” Fenris snapped.

“Excuse me?” Anders said. “Did you just, forget everything you said? Everything about  _ magic spoiling everything  _ and  _ abominations are abominations?  _ Because honestly, I feel as though—”

“You think of me as a wild dog! And just because the others coaxed you into aiding me—”

“—shifting blame here, and I refuse— _ what? _ ”

“Don’t act so blameless,” Fenris snapped. “I  _ felt  _ exactly what you thought of me, in the Fade. You burned it into my skull.”

“You think I—you think that’s why I haven’t—for the love of the Maker, you don’t want me around! Or am I wrong, and do you want the filthy sewer abomination to pay you house calls and visit once a week on Saturdays to pet the cats?”

Fenris opened his mouth, and found himself ready to say  _ yes  _ out of sheer contrariness. But then he closed it. Anders crossed his arms.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, bitterly triumphant. “Don’t blame me for it.”

Fenris just growled. There was more to say, more to argue—he was not the one to blame for this hatred between them—but he decided it wasn’t worth wasting his breath.

“Fine then. Think of yourself as the poor oppressed martyr,” Fenris snapped. “Ignore that I had  _ never  _ felt such loathing toward you as I felt back in the Fade. That you outright said you think of me as a wild beast.”

“And you think of me as some demon riddled mage, no better than the raving demon you were ready to cut down back in the Holding Caves,” Anders said. “I suppose it’s good we’ve managed to avoid each other then, isn’t it?”

But Fenris didn’t want to even grant him that. Anders stood and started pacing. Fenris wondered if he was going to, in fact, disappear back under the floorboards, but instead he just looked out the window and made some tsking noise at all the snow falling. He then shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Anders kept staring out the window. “I shouldn’t have ever said any of those things about you. That was unj—unreasonable, of me.”

Fenris had nothing to say for a moment. He blinked, wondering if for a moment he had slipped off to sleep without realizing it—not that he had ever had dreams of this sort, companions apologizing to him.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Fenris said. “Can’t you look someone in the eye when you apologize?”

He’d meant it to cause Anders to snap and take it back, to move them back to familiar territory. Instead, he turned and met Fenris’s eyes.

“I was wrong,” he said. “That was bigoted and cruel. I assumed it couldn’t hurt you, but it was still wrong. I regret it. I am sorry.”

Fenris held his breath, waited for the mage to take it back, to twist it into some joke. Or for it to be a trap of some kind, something to coerce some kind of admission out of Fenris. But that moment didn’t arrive, and instead there was just an uncomfortable moment of Anders staring at him seriously, ready to hold his gaze as long as he could until the point got across. Fenris ended up looking away.

“What’s the point of this?” he asked wearily.

Anders shrugged. “We—I’ve thought about the way I’ve acted toward you, and I made that realization. I wasn’t going to march up to your house and bother you about it, but since we’re here, I thought it was worth saying. That’s something you do when you realize you’re wrong about something, after all. Acknowledge it. Apologize.”

Fenris grunted, wondering if that was some sort of pointed remark directed at him. If the mage was prodding him by sanctimoniously pretending to take the higher ground, then Fenris refused to give him any sort of satisfaction. And if he was sincere—well, it didn’t make Fenris feel any better.

It actually might make him feel worse.

Anders looked away again, and started to pace. “And I don’t hate you,” he said. “Or despise you. I did. I won’t lie about that. But I don’t now. So…”

“So what?”

“So there,” Anders said. “That’s all I was going to say. Call me soft or sentimental, but I’d really rather not spend a snow-in growling at someone. Or leave on worse terms than before. I’d like it if you could at least acknowledge I’m  _ trying.” _

“Fine,” Fenris said. “I acknowledge it.”  

Anders started to rub his hands together, and mutter something under his breath while frowning.

“You’re welcome to sit down,” he said. “Or do you plan to walk about all night?”

Anders shot him an exasperated look, but kept whatever he was about to say to himself and sat back down. He pursed his lips. The uncomfortable quiet made Fenris dig back unconsciously back to a time when they had both been sitting in a cave, the sound of Anders’ voice filling the space. He felt a twinge—and before he knew it, he was speaking.

“I… do not know what to say,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Anders told him a bit grumpily.

Fenris pursed his lips. “Then you talk,” he said. “The silence bores me.”

Anders huffed. “Well,” he said. “I suppose we could reminisce about the good old times.”

“What good old times?”

“Oh, you know,” Anders said. “Running. Huddling in caves. Running again. Getting a magebane-laced arrow in my ass—can you believe that? Sounds like something straight out of a farce.”

Fenris thought back. The memories from that time seemed, as ever, disconnected from the current reality. But they were real, nonetheless. “I remember,” he said.

“And that book. One of Varric’s,” Anders said. “I can’t believe I read a whole book of his. And liked it!”

Fenris chuckled. “That sounds like disparagement of his writing skills.”

“I never even liked romantic tripe like that before,” Anders huffed. “And then… burning everything in your mansion.”

Fenris paused. “That… was satisfying,” he agreed.

“Wasn’t it?” Anders said. “I’m going to have to find some other excuse to toss things violently into a fire at some point in my life.”

“It certainly improved the place, at any rate.”

Anders chuckled. “Those weeks—absolutely ridiculous,” he said. “Bloody foolish of us—no wonder Varric and Isabela decided to take the piss. I mean…”

He trailed off. Fenris felt his jaw clench, his perspective flipping. He’d never—he’d never seen how Anders had reacted to the whole prank. It was possible he had never had the same problem with it that Fenris had—that Fenris was the only one sensitive to the cruelty of it.

“You think it was funny, then,” he asked coolly. “That they fooled us.”

“I—no,” Anders said. “Especially not at the time. I was furious. But—well, might as well try to get a laugh out of it in retrospect, right? We were— _ I  _ was pretty ridiculous about the whole thing. Picking out curtains. Dancing. Hah.”

The short laugh he gave was hollow. Fenris didn’t meet his eyes, but focused on the slow, angry rising of his pulse.

“…Alright,” Anders said, throwing up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I have no idea what I said  _ this  _ time that’s got your smalls in a twist, but I take it back.”

“It’s not much better,” Fenris told him, slowly, “to exchange being considered a wild animal with being considered a joke.”

“I’m not—I didn’t—argh!” Anders snapped. “That is not what I was saying.”

Fenris grunted, disbelieving.

“I was making fun of myself,” he said. “I was a naïve idiot. I was desperate. I let myself believe there was much more to everything than there was. And because of my silliness, we—I’ve made you angry again.”

“I’m astounded you don’t seem to hear yourself,” he said. “Naïve and desperate—otherwise you would have never have…”

But his throat tightened, and he refused to elaborate further. If the mage wanted to imply he was useless, unwanted garbage that Anders was glad to be rid of, then let him.

“Oh for the love of—” Anders said. “I thought you’d at least agree with me being a desperate, naïve fool! I thought we could reach some common ground here. Now you’re just  _ trying  _ to find something insulting about everything I say.”

Fenris didn’t have a response for that. “I was the one who—who initiated it,” he said, finally. His throat felt scratchy. It was humiliating to recall it, to drag out the memories and realize yes, he had been the one to insist that they might had had a relationship. Even when Anders hesitated.  _ Foolish.  _ “So, since you have given your apologies, let me apologize for wasting your time with a ‘bigoted’ elf. You must feel so  _ ashamed _ .”

He didn’t realize he was snarling until he snapped his head up, and saw Anders’s expression—a very pinched expression that seemed to indicate he had not intended for the conversation to go this way at all. He opened his mouth a moment, closed it, and then his shoulders sagged.

“Fenris,” he said. “I was happy.”

Fenris blinked. “What?”

“I was happy,” Anders repeated. “Probably—no, almost certainly, the happiest I have ever been, with you. I couldn’t remember any of the things that make me unhappy now. I had everything I had ever dreamed about having outside the Circle. A roof over my head. Three square meals a day. A soft bed. Possessions of my own.  Death not breathing down my neck. Several cats.  _ Freedom _ . And I thought someone lo—cared about me. It being you didn’t…”

He trailed off. Fenris stared at him, thrown off balance and unsure of how to reply.

“I didn’t even want to get my memories back. Not really,” Anders said. “I sensed there was something wrong about them and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted everything to continue as it was. I liked working on your creepy, cursed mansion and making it livable. I liked feeding the cats. I liked making the salve for you, reading that silly novel out loud by the fire, giving you lessons—have you kept up with those, by the way?”

Fenris swallowed. “Kept up with them?” he asked. “With no one to teach me?”

Anders shut his eyes tightly. “Of course. I just…” he shrugged. “Well, anyway. Now you know. I don’t feel ashamed, so don’t spit that in my face. I was happy. Probably the happiest I’ve ever been. I know it was fake. But I’m glad—”

“Stop,” Fenris said. Every muscle on his face was tight, everything wound up inside of him. “Why are you telling me this? What do you expect to get out of it?”

Anders’s eyes flashed, and he scowled. “I’m not trying to get anything! It’s just the truth,” he said. “Might as well say it. I’d have been head over heels for Meredith if she’d been in your place. Naïve. Desperate. Like I said. That’s why I was making a joke out of it.”

Fenris shut his eyes tightly, trying to process this. He wished, for a moment, that Anders would go back to calling him a dog. Then he could curse him back and dismiss him as the mad abomination he was. But this?

“I didn’t want to hear this,” Fenris said. “This is not—I didn’t want to know.”

Anders threw up his hands. “Well, now you do know. It doesn’t matter anyway. Carry on with your merry life.” Fenris starting to hear the angry bite in his tone. “You were mad when I tried to laugh it off. You’re mad now that I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want  _ anything  _ from you.”

A pause. Fenris finally opened his eyes and saw Anders suck in a breath. His eyes hadn’t turned blue, but they were still aflame, his brow furrowed.

“Well, there we have it then,” Anders said. “At least had the satisfaction of nearly killing me, afterwards. Must have felt good.”

Fenris saw red. “You think I felt  _ satisfied?!”  _ he asked. “You think I enjoyed that?! I took no pleasure in it. I—”

He’d regretted it. He’d felt guilty, so guilty, much as he’d tried to drink it away. He’d felt like a violent animal then than from anything Anders had ever sneered at him. He’d felt ugly and filthy and bloody, as much as he had after the Fog Warriors. He’d hated himself. But he couldn’t say that. He choked on the words right as they rose in his mouth. Anders was already raising his hand.

“Whatever,” Anders said. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything. We should—quit while we’re ahead.” He laughed. “Honestly, this is probably as good as it’ll get, for us.”

“Of course you think so,” Fenris snapped. “Since you’re the one who did most of the talking.”

He expected Anders to rise to the bait. But Anders had already switched tactics, rising and heading for the door. It had stopped snowing while they were arguing, Fenris realized.

“It’s time for me to be getting back to Darktown, anyway,” Anders mumbled.

“Is it,” Fenris said, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

Anders opened the door, and immediately snow collapsed on his boots. He shivered, and stomped his way up. Right before he left he paused for a moment.

“You know,” he said. “About the reading lessons… I can…”

Fenris paused, thrown off by the sudden change of topic. Anders glanced at him, and then swallowed.

“Lirene’s a good teacher,” he said. “I can put in a word with her.”

Fenris clenched his fists. “Just go, mage,” he said.

After that, Anders didn’t spare him a second glance.

Fenris paced around for a moment, still shivering in the cold. Angry—he felt so  _ angry.  _ He could feel his blood pumping as though he was ready to fight, to punch someone in the face, to rip out a heart, just from that conversation. And Anders had gotten away.

It wasn’t long before he ran out, hissing as his armored boots sank into the freshly fallen snow. He scanned the area, his eyes immediately falling on the trail Anders left behind. He stomped after the footprints left in the snow.

He called Anders’s name, furiously gritting his teeth. He turned a corner, and then another one, and then the footprints got muddled with others, disappearing into slush. Cold wind hit his face, and as Fenris looked around, he realized the fire inside had died down.

He had been ready to chase Anders out into the night—for what? To yell at him more? To get him to—what? What did he even  _ want  _ from the man?

He closed his eyes, and tried to make sense of what he was feeling. It was not anger.

Bitterness. Shame. Loneliness. Hurt.

But trying to make Anders feel worse wouldn’t make any of that better.

The wind picked up.

Fenris turned, and slowly returned to his makeshift shelter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ducks flying tomatoes)
> 
> I do understand if no one likes where this story ended up. It felt like the most natural ending to me. This is where I felt the two of them would naturally end up, given these events happening in Act 2. But hey, I know not everyone will agree with me, and that's alright.
> 
> Anyway. I... also have a sequel idea. A ONESHOT sequel idea. Because holy shit, I am not doing a 60k follow up. I am _not._ But there will be a continuation, of sorts. If I am not too tired and stressed.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments. All of your attention has meant a lot to me, maybe more than I can express!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel Hook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so, first things first.
> 
> 1) Thank you to everyone who has commented so far! Even if you didn't like the direction this has taken, I appreciate the feedback.
> 
> 2) The sequel is... probably going to be longer than a oneshot. Actually, pretty much definitely at this point. There's a lot more I want to do with these characters in this universe. 
> 
> 3) Since it's still being planned and outlined, I do not promise the sequel will be happy or sad--but there are definitely humorous, tropey shenanigans planned. I am a sad sack, though, and things frequently turn miserable once I touch them, so there will probably be angst too.
> 
> And now, the chapter. Warning: contains Merrill.

Merrill could hear a faint hum in her ears. It sounded like magic, but so soft she did not know if it was really there. Perhaps she had merely worked too long, and was now hearing things. She hadn’t slept since--she couldn’t remember. But her hands had started to shake as she worked, so perhaps it was time to take a break.

It was hard to keep track of time, when she worked on the eluvian.

She would have crawled to her bed to sleep, but she hadn’t had much luck with that lately. She needed to leave to clear her head. Taking a walk, seeing other people—that had sometimes helped in the past. Not always. Less and less these days. But it was worth a shot.

It was hard to open her door. It had been snowing heavily last—night? Sometime fairly recently. She rubbed her eyes. It was dawn. She hadn’t noticed inside her little house. Varric and Isabela would probably be asleep at this hour. Hawke and Aveline would be asleep—or working. Merrill slumped a little, realizing that there wouldn’t be anyone to talk to. Still, she marched forward into the snow.

She rubbed at her hand. The glyph she had carved there weeks ago to hijack the blood magic controlling that possessed woman was fresh as ever, aching and raw to the touch. She had bandaged it, put ointment on it, and yet the wounds remained open.

There were shadows in the corner of her eye as she walked—as there had been, the past few weeks. Tiny movements that drew her eye. Figures that melted quickly into the crowd when she turned to look. Flickers of something lurking behind whatever corner she turned to see.

She kept walking.

It was midday before she knew it. She peeked into the Hanged Man. Varric was nowhere to be seen—probably busy with some kind of merchant business. Isabela wasn’t around either. Merrill frowned glumly as she left. If Isabela was there, she could maybe just lean against her. Isabela would have let Merrill lean on her for a bit, would have listened while Merrill talked and run fingers through her hair—

Merrill stopped, heart catching in her throat as she saw a flash of a white dress in the corner of her eye. She turned, and her heart sank. Isabela was there, yes. She was in a dark, shadowy alley, palms against the wall—and Hawke was there, in Isabela’s arms.

Merrill watched for a moment, but only a moment. And then, feeling hollow, she moved on.

If only there was someone to talk to her. Her hand itched again, and she rubbed it. The wound chafed under her bandages. She needed to food and water and sleep, but she didn’t want to go back. Not yet.

There was something else at the corner of her vision, again. She turned again, found nothing again, and kept on walking, shutting her eyes tiredly as she moved forward.

Fenris was at edge of Lowtown, right in front of the entrance to the Undercity. Merrill stopped as she saw him. She could only see his profile, but every muscle in his face seemed contorted, and every muscle in his body taut. He was holding a rail on the staircase leading to Darktown, gripping as though he were preparing to throw himself off a cliff.

Merrill’s head was empty, and she felt rather light—as though her body was going to spin away into the wind any moment. But she suddenly had thoughts. Images in her head of sitting at a warm fire while Fenris and Anders poured her drinks, shared stories, listened to her, smiled—

And then Fenris noticed her. She hadn’t given it much thought a second ago, but it definitely hadn’t been anger on his face when he’d been staring into the pit that was the Darktown entrance. She could tell because now that his eyes fixed on  _ her _ —well, that was rage.

“What are you looking at?” he snarled.

Merrill jumped, blinking. The images in her head died as quickly as they’d risen to the surface.

“I—” She blinked. She had felt something about this, about how Fenris’s rage had targeted her, and how Anders’s righteousness had condemned her. She’d felt a lot about it—but now all that seemed to be gone. “I don’t understand why you hate me. I wanted to help.”

She sounded like a whining child to her own ears. Fenris’s face changed, but she couldn’t read the new expression. She didn’t bother to, and was already turning away.

She scratched at her tingling palm again, winced at the pain it brought. She could hear that hum in her ears again. Fancifully, she wondered if it was the eluvian calling to her—and wasn’t that just it? She had more important things to do, than listen to Fenris yell at her for blood magic. Fenris was not her clan, after all— _ none  _ of these people were.

Perhaps it was time she remembered that.

Fenris said something while she was walking away, maybe even called it after her. She barely heard it, and didn’t respond.

Whether he went down to Darktown, or stayed, she did not know.

She kept walking, this time toward her house. But she still did not want to go back—she didn’t want the eluvian staring at her. Part of her wanted to go to Hawke’s house and ask to just crash in a soft, luxurious bed for the rest of the day, but she didn’t want to run to Hawke like a child. So she stopped instead, leaning against one of the alienage walls.

There was another flash of something in the corner of her eye. Merrill closed her eyes, and felt her arm tingle.

She was not a fool. She knew she was being followed—had been followed, for the past few weeks. Knew why the bloody glyph on her palm had not healed. She’d been sleeping with one eye open these days, listening every moment, jumping at every scratch on her window at night, wondering what was her imagination and what was not, waiting—waiting for it to all go to the pits.

She was being followed. And her follower—her follower was adept at wearing people down.

_ I will be waiting every moment. Thinking, planning. _

Merrill started to scratch at her palm, and distantly noticed blood seeping through her bandages.

_ You will slip up. You will stumble. _

Her head followed the flash that she saw at the corner of her eye, again. This time, the figure did not melt away. Merrill thought, not for the first time, that she could have told Hawke, could have asked everyone to help her take care of it. But they all would have jumped immediately to  _ killing,  _ and—

_ The moment I have the leeway… _

The spell—Merrill was mostly confident that the desire demon could not undo the binding spell, and as long as the binding spell was active, Merrill’s orders to not kill anyone would have to be followed. But the spirit had had so much time to study, to think of ways to subvert that. She shut her eyes tightly, thinking.

It was time to resolve this.

Merrill opened her eyes. She saw a white dress and a familiar bandana turning around the corner. But Isabela was nowhere near here. Isabela was with Hawke, far away. Merrill took a deep breath, and followed.

At the end of the alleyway, the woman was waiting. She looked like Isabela—exactly like her, except for the tense way she held her body, the harshness of her gaze. Merrill stepped forward anyway.

“Hello,” Merrill said.

Nothing in response. Just a fixed glare, uncomfortable eye contact that made Merrill shuffle on her feet for a moment. But she hadn’t been attacked yet—that was good. Merrill thought about her choice, reviewing her options—but she had already decided what she was going to do.

The wind picked up. The woman’s harsh glare and aggressive stance was ruined by a shiver. It broke the silence, and Merrill took the opportunity to ask a question.

“Do you… do you have anywhere to go? Any shelter?”

The woman shook her head slowly.

Merrill swallowed, wondered for a moment if she was crazy. She could practically hear Anders’s voice in her head, warning her off, berating her, calling her a naïve fool allowing herself to be preyed on. He’d had harsh enough words last time, told her she’d be personally responsible for every death wrought should the demon get free. She shook her head rapidly, banishing the voice. Perhaps—perhaps compassion was foolish and risky, but it was the path she chose.

She continued.

“You can… stay with me,” Merrill said. “If you don’t want to be out in the snow, that is.”

The woman’s expression dropped. The wind picked up again, and Merrill found it funny, what the shapes Isabela’s face turned into without Isabela’s personality behind it.

“Why?” she asked, and Merrill could hear both the demon and the mortal in that question.

“It’s cold,” Merrill said. “Do you want to come with me?”

Against all odds, the woman stepped forward.

Merrill smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [ right over here, at this updated link.](http://allegedgreywarden.tumblr.com/) Shoot me a message if you feel so inclined.


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